Believing the Lie

  “Ten o’clock?” he said. “Thank you, Deb.”

  “I do see it’s better this way,” she lied.

  WINDERMERE

  CUMBRIA

  Zed Benjamin had barely slept. His story was crumbling. What had started out too hot to be handled without oven gloves was fast becoming cold fish on a platter. He hadn’t the slightest clue what to do with the information he had because he had no information that amounted to a blockbuster of a story. In his daydreams it had been an exposé, front page material in which was revealed that a secret investigation launched by New Scotland Yard was digging up dirt about Nicholas Fairclough and about what truly went for his recovery from years of drug abuse, which was the murder of a cousin standing in the way of his success. It was the tale of a bloke who had managed to pull the wool over the eyes of his parents, his family, and his fellows by posing as a do-gooder while all the time engaged in vile machinations to eliminate someone blocking his access to the family fortune. The story was accompanied by photos— DS Cotter, Fairclough, his wife, the pele project, and Fairclough Industries among others— and its length and quality begged for a leap onto page 3 and from there to 4 and 5 as well. All of it rested beneath the byline Zedekiah Benjamin. His name in journalistic lights.

  For that to happen, however, the story had to be about Nicholas Fairclough. But, if nothing else, his day with DS Cotter had proved that Nick Fairclough was of no interest to the Met. The day had also proved that Fairclough’s wife was a monumental dead end.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” was how the red-haired detective had reported upon her interview with the woman they’d followed from the Kent-Howath Foundation for Disabled Veterans to Lancaster University and back again, all in the company of Alatea Fairclough.

  “What d’you mean ‘nothing’?” had been Zed’s demand.

  She’d said the woman— Lucy Keverne was her name— and Alatea had gone to see a specialist at the university about “female troubles.” They were Lucy’s “female troubles,” evidently, and Alatea had accompanied her as a friend.

  “Shit,” he’d muttered. “That’s bloody nowhere, isn’t it?”

  “It does put us back to square one,” she replied.

  No, he thought. It put her back to square one. It put him in danger of losing his job.

  He found that he wanted to talk to Yaffa. She was wise, and if anyone was going to be able to suggest how he could get himself out of this mess and onto a story that Rodney Aronson would find a suitable return for the money invested by The Source, it was going to be Yaffa.

  So he rang her. When he heard her voice, he felt nearly overcome with relief. He said, “Morning, darling.”

  She said, “Zed, hello,” and, “Mama Benjamin, it’s our lovely man ringing,” to tell him Susanna was somewhere nearby. “I miss you, dearest.” And she laughed at something Susanna said in the distance. She said, “Mama Benjamin tells me to stop trying to ensnare her son. He is an uncatchable bachelor, she tells me. Is that true?”

  “Not if you’re trying to do the catching,” he replied. “I’ve never had bait I wanted to bite so badly.”

  “You wicked boy!” And to the side, “No, no, Mama Benjamin. I will absolutely not tell you what your son is saying. I will say that he’s making me a bit faint, though.” And to Zed, “You are, you know. I’m quite light-headed.”

  “Well, good thing it’s not your head I’m interested in.”

  She laughed. Then she said in a completely altered voice, “Ah. She’s gone into the loo. We’re safe. How are you, Zed?”

  He found he wasn’t ready for the shift from Yaffa the Putative Lover to Yaffa the Co-conspirator. He said, “Missing you, Yaf. I wish you were with me.”

  “Let me help you from a distance. I’m happy to do that.”

  For an insane moment, Zed thought she was actually suggesting phone sex, and in his present state, that would have been a welcome diversion. But then she said, “Are you close to the information you need? You must be worried about the story.”

  That brought him round, cold water on his ardour. He said with a groan, “That bloody story.” He told her where he was with it. He told her everything, as he’d been doing all along. And as she’d been doing all along, she listened. He concluded with, “So there’s sod-all to report on. I could massage the facts and write that Scotland Yard’s up here investigating Nick Fairclough due to the untimely and suspicious death of his cousin, who happened to hold the purse strings of Fairclough Industries, and we all know what that means, don’t we, gentle readers? But the truth of the matter happens to be that Scotland Yard look like they’re investigating Alatea Fairclough and getting about as far with her as I’ve got with her husband. We’re in the same position, the Met and I. The only difference is this detective can toddle back to London and give the high-ups the all-clear, but if I return without a story, I’m done for.” He heard his tone as he concluded and he said hastily, “Sorry. I’m whingeing a bit.”

  “Zed, you can whinge all you need to.”

  “Ta, Yaf. You’re… well you’re just how you are.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Thank you, I think. Now let us put our heads together. When one door closes, another opens.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning perhaps it’s time you did what you were intended to do. You’re a poet, Zed, not a tabloid journalist. Remaining one is going to bleed your soul of its creative power. It’s time for you to write your poetry.”

  “No one supports himself on his poetry.” Zed laughed self-derisively. “Look at me. I’m twenty-five years old and I’m living with my mum. I can’t even support myself as a reporter, for the love of God.”

  “Ah, Zed. Don’t talk this way. You need only someone to believe in you. I believe in you.”

  “Bloody lot of good that does me. You’re going back to Tel Aviv.”

  There was a silence at the other end. Into it came the indication of another phone call to Zed’s mobile. He said, “Yaffa? You still there?”

  “Oh yes. I’m here,” she said.

  The other call was insistent. Rodney, probably. It was close to the time he had to face the music. He said, “Yaffa, I’ve got another call. I probably should— ”

  “I don’t have to,” she said quickly. “I don’t even need to. You think about that, Zed.” Then she rang off.

  For a moment he stared at nothing at all. Then he took the other call.

  It was the Scotland Yard detective. She said, “I’m going to speak to this woman in Lancaster again. There’s more here than meets the eye. It’s time you and I worked together to twist her arm.”

  BARROW-IN-FURNESS AND GRANGE-OVER-SANDS

  CUMBRIA

  One of the last people Manette expected to see turn up on the premises of Fairclough Industries was Kaveh Mehran. As far as she could recall, he’d never been there before. Ian had certainly never taken him round for formal introductions, and Kaveh hadn’t come on his own expecting to be introduced. Nearly everyone knew, of course, that Ian had walked out on his marriage because of a young man. But that was the extent of it. So when Kaveh was shown into her office, she blinked in confusion before she realised he’d probably come to collect Ian’s personal belongings. It needed to be done and no one had yet thought about doing it.

  His reason for showing up at the firm, however, turned out to be somewhat different. Tim was missing. He’d jumped out of Kaveh’s car on the previous morning on the way to school, and he’d not returned home last night.

  Manette said, “Did something happen? Why did he jump out of your car? Did he go to school? Did you phone the school?”

  The school, Kaveh said, had phoned the house yesterday. Tim was absent, and when one of the day pupils didn’t turn up, the school rang the home because… well, because of the sort of school it was, if Manette knew what he meant.

  Well, of course she bloody knew what he meant. The whole family knew what Margaret Fox School was all about. It was hardly a secre
t.

  Kaveh then said that he’d driven the route from Bryanbarrow to Margaret Fox School that morning to see if Tim was, perhaps, hitchhiking there. On the way, he’d stopped in Great Urswick on the chance that Tim had gone to Manette’s home to spend the night or was holed up somewhere on her property without her knowledge. He’d stopped at the school next. And now he was here. Could Tim be here?

  “Here?” Manette asked. “D’you mean in the factory? Of course he’s not here. What would he be doing here?”

  “Have you seen him at all? Has he phoned? For obvious reasons, I haven’t checked with Niamh.” Kaveh had the grace to look uncomfortable, but Manette knew there was something rather large and important that he wasn’t saying.

  “I’ve not heard from him. And he’s not been in Great Urswick. Why’d he jump out of your car?”

  Kaveh looked over his shoulder, as if he wanted to close the door to her office. This alone made Manette gird herself for something she wasn’t going to want to hear.

  He said, “I think he overheard a conversation I was having with George Cowley.”

  “The farmer? What on earth…?”

  “It was about the future, the farm. I expect you know Cowley’s wanted the farm for himself.”

  “Ian told me, yes. And what of the farm and Mr. Cowley?” And why would Tim care a fig about either? she wondered.

  “I mentioned to Mr. Cowley my intentions regarding Bryan Beck farm,” he said. “I suspect Tim overheard.”

  “And what are your intentions? Are you thinking of raising sheep yourself?” Manette sounded tart and couldn’t help it. The farm, after all, should have gone to Tim and Gracie. It should not now be the sole property of this man who’d done his best to ruin their lives.

  “To keep it, of course. But also… I did tell him that Tim and Gracie would be returning to their mother. Tim may have overheard that.”

  Manette drew her eyebrows together. She knew, of course, that this was the logical progression of events. Farm or no farm, Tim and Gracie could hardly continue to live with their father’s lover now that their father was dead. It wouldn’t be easy moving to their mother’s home— Niamh being Niamh— but there wasn’t an alternative as long as they were underage. Tim would understand this. He would doubtless have been expecting it, and he doubtless would also have been preferring it. So would have Gracie. Thus, to have this piece of information set him off to the extent that he would jump out of Kaveh’s car and run off …? This didn’t make sense.

  She said, “I don’t mean to be offensive, Kaveh, but I can’t imagine the children would want to live with you now that their dad’s dead. So is there something else…? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Kaveh looked at her squarely. “If there is, I can’t tell you what. Will you help, Manette? I don’t know what else— ”

  “I’ll handle it,” she said.

  When he’d departed, she phoned the school. For ease of information, she claimed to be Niamh. She learned at once that Tim wasn’t there for a second day. The school was worried, as it would be. Losing one of their pupils could mean all sorts of things and not a single one of them was good.

  Manettte phoned Niamh next. The answer machine took the call in Niamh’s irritating purr, doubtless designed as a siren’s song for potential suitors. Manette left a message, but then switched to, “Tim? Are you there, listening to this? If you are, pick up, love. This is your cousin Manette.”

  Nothing, but of course, that didn’t mean much. If he was in hiding, he was hardly going to reveal it to someone searching for him. And he would know Manette was looking for him. He would know everyone was looking for him.

  There was nothing to do but set out on a search. Manette didn’t want to do it alone, however. She went to Freddie’s office. Not there. She went to Ian’s office, and there Freddie was, beavering away at Ian’s computer, trying to make sense of the money trails. She watched him for a moment before she spoke. She thought, Dear Freddie, and her heart hurt briefly, as if making her aware of its presence for the first time in years.

  She said, “Have you a moment, Fred?”

  He looked up, smiled. “What’s up?” And then, “What’s happened?” because he read her as well now as he’d read her when they were married.

  She told him the gist: Tim was missing, and she needed to make the drive to Niamh’s, which seemed to be the only place left where he could be in hiding. But she didn’t want to make the drive alone. Or better said, she didn’t want to confront Tim alone. Things were iffy with the boy. She felt a little… well, a little in need of backup if it was going to come down to another confrontation with him.

  Of course, Freddie agreed. When had Freddie not agreed? He said, “In a tick. Meet you at the car,” and he set about doing whatever he needed to do to close up shop for a while.

  He was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes, he was climbing into the passenger seat of her car, saying, “Don’t want me to drive?”

  She said, “One of us might have to jump out and tackle him, and I’d rather it was you, if you don’t mind.”

  They made good time to Grange-over-Sands, taking the coastal route along the empty bay. When they pulled up in front of Niamh’s white house, it was to see her on the doorstep bidding a fond farewell to the same bloke Manette had encountered the last time she’d been in Grange-over-Sands. Charlie Wilcox of Milnthorpe Chinese takeaway fame, she thought. She murmured his name to Freddie, but she didn’t need to say anything more about the man’s relationship with Tim and Gracie’s mother. Niamh herself was making that clear enough.

  She was wearing a dressing gown with enough leg showing through its opening at the moment to indicate she had nothing on beneath it. Charlie was wearing last night’s clothing, an out-on-the-town getup with a jacket and trousers, white shirt, and tie rakishly unknotted round his neck. Niamh cast a quick look in the direction of Manette’s car and then gave herself to a serious good-bye kiss, locking her leg around poor Charlie’s leg and doing a bit of bump and grind against him. Her mouth was so wide upon his she might have been excavating for his wisdom teeth with her tongue.

  Manette sighed. She glanced at Freddie. He was blushing. He shot her a look. She shrugged.

  They got out of the car as the kiss ended. Charlie was walking dazedly to his Saab still parked in the drive, and he nodded a hello that was utterly unembarrassed. Seemed like he was getting quite comfortable coming and going and doing what Niamh needed to have done, Manette thought. Just like a plumber seeing to the pipes. She snorted at the thought and approached the front door.

  Niamh hadn’t closed it. She’d gone inside, however, most likely thinking that Manette and Freddie would do likewise. They did, shutting the door behind them.

  Niamh called, “I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m putting on something decent.”

  Manette didn’t comment on this. She and Freddie went to the sitting room, which displayed the remains of a tryst: wine bottle, two glasses, a plate bearing crumbs and bits of cheese and chocolate, sofa cushions shoved onto the floor, and a pile of Niamh’s clothing lying nearby. Niamh was, Manette thought, certainly having the time of her life.

  “Sorry. Haven’t got to this yet.”

  Manette and Freddie turned at the sound of Niamh’s voice. Her “something decent” turned out to be a black leotard, which hugged every curve of her body and did everything possible to emphasise her breasts. These stood to attention like infantrymen in the presence of their commanding general. Their nipples strained against the thin cloth.

  Manette glanced at Freddie. He was looking out of the sitting room window, at the fine view of the bay that it provided. With the tide out, plovers and knots by the thousands were in. Freddie wasn’t a bird man, but he was giving them considerable attention. The tips of his ears were absolutely magenta.

  Niamh smiled slyly at Manette. She said, “Now. What can I do for you two?” and she bustled round as well as one could be said to bustle in a leotard. She put th
e cushions back onto the sofa and plumped them nicely, then picked up the wine bottle and glasses and took them into the kitchen. There the remains of a Chinese takeaway dinner were on the worktops and the table. It seemed that Charlie Wilcox was providing all sorts of sustenance, Manette thought. Stupid sod.

  Manette said to her, “I phoned. Did you not hear it, Niamh?”

  She fluttered her fingers in a pooh-pooh gesture. “I never answer the phone when Charlie’s here,” she said. “Would you? In my position?”

  “I’m not sure. Which one is your position? Oh, never mind. I don’t care to know. Yes, I’d answer the phone if I heard the message and the message was about my son.”

  Niamh was at the worktop, picking up the takeaway cartons, inspecting them for remains that were salvageable. “What about Tim?” she asked.

  Manette felt Freddie come into the kitchen behind her. She moved to one side to give him room. She glanced at him. He stood with his arms crossed inspecting the mess. Freddie wasn’t big on the pickings of daily life being left round to clutter up a place.

  Manette gave Niamh the story in brief. One missing son, two days truant from school. “Has he been here?” she finished, fairly sure of the answer.

  “Not that I know of,” Niamh said. “I haven’t been home every moment. I suppose he could have come and gone.”

  “We’d like to check,” Freddie said.

  “Why? D’you think he’s under a bed? Do you think I’m hiding him from you?”

  “We think he might be hiding from you,” Manette put in. “And who could blame him? Let’s be honest, Niamh. There’s a limit to what life can ask one boy to endure, and I expect he’s reached his.”

  “What, exactly, are you saying?”

  “I think you know very well. And with what you’ve been up to— ”

  Freddie touched her arm briefly to halt her words. He said reasonably, “Tim might have slipped into the house while you were sleeping. He could be in the garage as well. D’you mind awfully if we have a look? It’ll just take a moment and then we’ll be out of your hair.”