Believing the Lie (54 page)

They set off for Ireleth Hall in midmorning. Soon enough the rain began to fall. Late autumn and it poured buckets in Cumbria. In another month, it would begin to snow. They’d get a bit where
they lived in Great Urswick. Farther north, the steep, narrow passes over the fells would close until next spring.

When Freddie parked the car near the vast front door of Ireleth Hall, Manette turned to him. “Thanks for this, Freddie,” she said.

He said, “Eh?” and looked genuinely perplexed.

“For coming along with me. I do appreciate it.”

“Tosh. We’re in this together, old girl.” And before she could reply, Freddie was out of the car and coming round to open her own door. “Let’s beard the lion before we lose our nerve. If things get bad we can always ring your sister and request an interesting diversion.”

Manette chuckled. Freddie did know her family, didn’t he. Well, of course he did. He’d been a member of it for nearly half his life. She said without thinking of the implications, “Why on earth did we ever divorce, Freddie?”

“Continual failure on someone’s part to recap the toothpaste as I recall,” he replied lightly.

They didn’t knock upon the door, merely entering the long, rectangular hall where the autumn chill suggested a fire needed to be lit in the enormous fireplace. Manette shouted out a hello that seemed to echo off the walls. Freddie did likewise, calling out Bernard’s and Valerie’s names.

Valerie was the one who replied. They heard her walking along the corridor upstairs. In a moment, she came down. She smiled and said, “What a nice surprise to see you. Together as well.” She said the last as if expecting from them a happy announcement of the reconciliation type. Not very likely, Manette thought. Her mother didn’t know about Freddie and his wildly successful foray into the world of Internet dating.

Manette saw that Valerie’s assumption could be extremely useful in this moment, though. She reached for her former husband’s hand and said coyly, “We were hoping to have a word with you and Dad. Is he around?”

Valerie looked even more pleased. She said, “Goodness. He must be. Let me see if I can find him. Freddie dear, will you light that fire? Shall we meet in here or would you prefer—”

“Here’s just fine,” Manette said. She held on to Freddie’s hand and looked at him, “Isn’t it, Freddie?”

Freddie was, as always, blushing, which Manette considered a perfect touch. As her mother left the room he said, “I say, old girl,” to which Manette replied, “Thanks for playing along,” before she lifted his hand and gave it a swift and affectionate kiss. “You’re a brick. Let’s see to the fire. Mind the flue’s open.”

By the time Valerie returned with Bernard, the fire was roaring and Manette and Freddie were standing in front of it, toasting their backsides. To Manette, it was fairly clear from the expression on her parents’ faces that they’d had a brief conversation about the nature of what Freddie and she had come to talk about. Her father wore a look of anticipation that equaled her mother’s. No surprise there, really. They’d both adored Freddie from the day Manette had brought him home for an introduction.

Her father offered coffee. Her mother offered toasted tea cakes, chocolate gateau, biscotti from a bakery in Windermere. Both Manette and Freddie demurred politely. Manette said, “Let’s sit, though,” and led Freddie to one of the sofas perpendicular to the fireplace. Her parents took the other. Both of them, interestingly, sat on the edge as if ready to spring up and run at the least provocation. It was either that or being ready to dash off for a bottle of the bubbly. Hope did always spring eternal, Manette thought, when it came to what people believed was possible.

She said, “Freddie?” as an indication to him to take the bull by the horns.

He said, looking from her father to her mother, “Bernard, Valerie, it’s about Ian and the books.”

Alarm swept across Bernard’s features. He looked at his wife as if drawing the conclusion that he’d been bushwhacked by her in a scheme with their daughter, while Valerie looked mystified although she said nothing, merely waiting for more information. Manette didn’t know if Freddie noticed this. It didn’t matter much, because he went on directly, saying, “I know this isn’t going to go down well in some quarters, but we have to sort out a way to deal with Mignon’s monthly payments. Or, preferably, to stop them altogether. And we
have to get to the bottom of this matter of Vivienne Tully. What with the money that’s gone into Arnside House and the money to Mignon
and
the money to Vivienne…I’d love you to think Fairclough Industries is awash with cash, but the truth is that along with the expense of the children’s garden here at the hall, we’re going to have to cut back somewhere. And sooner rather than later.”

It was all so vintage Freddie, Manette thought. He was earnest and truthful, guileless to a fault. There was no possible way her father could argue that this outlay of money was not Freddie’s concern. Freddie was not accusing him of anything. In addition, no one was more appropriate than Freddie to be looking through the books to see where the business stood after Ian’s death anyway.

She waited for her father’s response. So did Freddie. So did Valerie. The fire crackled and popped and a log rolled off the grate. Bernard took this opportunity to temporise. He took up the tongs and the hearth brush and dealt with the problem while the three of them watched him.

Valerie said, when he turned back to them, “Tell me about the money going out to Vivienne Tully, Freddie,” although when she said it, her eyes were fixed on her husband.

Freddie said affably, “Well, it’s a bit peculiar. It’s evidently been going on for years, increasing incrementally. I’ve more documentation from Ian’s computer accounts to sort through, but from what I’ve gathered so far, it
seems
like a large pile of money went out to her—via a bank transfer—some years ago, then a gap of a few years with nothing going out to her, and then a monthly allowance of some sort appears to have begun.”

“When would this have been?” Valerie asked steadily.

“Round eight and a half years ago. Now, I know she sits on the board of the foundation, Bernard—”

“I beg your pardon?” Valerie turned to her husband and said his name as Freddie continued with, “But that position, as with all charitable boards, would be unpaid save for expenses, of course. Only, what she’s being paid far exceeds any expenses unless”—and here he chuckled and Manette wanted to kiss him for the sheer innocence of that chuckle—“she’s dining out every night with
potential donors and sending their children to public schools to boot. That not being the case—”

“I’m getting the picture,” Valerie said. “Aren’t you, Bernard? Or is the truth of the matter that there’s no picture for you to get?”

Bernard was looking at Manette. Of course he would want to know what she had told Freddie and what sort of game they were playing with him now. He would feel betrayed as well. What he’d told her on the previous day, he’d told her in confidence. Well, had he told her everything, Manette thought, she might have kept the truth to herself. But he hadn’t done, had he? He’d told her just enough to appease her in that moment, or so he had believed.

Bernard tried to present his earlier excuse, saying, “I’ve no idea why there were payments to Vivienne. It’s possible that Ian felt he had to…” He stumbled here, looking for a reason. “Perhaps this was a means of protecting me.”

“From what, exactly?” Valerie asked. “As I recall, Vivienne accepted employment in a more senior position with a firm in London. She wasn’t dismissed. Or was she? Is there something I don’t know?” And then to Freddie, “Exactly how much money are we talking about?”

Freddie named the sum. Freddie named the bank. Valerie’s lips parted. Manette could see the whites of her teeth, gritted together. Her gaze fixed on Bernard. He looked away.

Valerie said to him, “How would you prefer me to interpret this, Bernard?”

Bernard said nothing.

She said, “Shall I believe she’s been blackmailing Ian for some reason? Perhaps he was cooking the books and she knew it so he cooked them some more, benefitting her? Or perhaps she promised to take herself out of the picture and say nothing to Niamh of his sexual proclivities as long as he paid her…although that wouldn’t explain why he continued to pay her once he left Niamh for Kaveh, would it, darling? So let’s go with the first idea. Freddie, is there any indication Ian was cooking the books?”

“Well, only in that the payments to Mignon have increased as well. But as to any money going his own way, there’s nothing—”

“Mignon?”

“Right. Her allowance has taken a rather large jump,” Freddie said. “Problem with that, the way I see it, is that the jump doesn’t actually match necessary expenses, if you know what I mean. Of course there was the surgery, but that would have been one payment, wouldn’t it? And considering she lives right here on the property, what has she got in the way of actual expenses? I know she does tend to spend a bit on her Internet shopping, but really, how much can that cost? Well, of course, I suppose it could cost a fortune, couldn’t it, if one became addicted to shopping on the Internet or something, but…”

Freddie babbled on a bit. Manette knew he could feel the tension between her parents and she knew his babbling was a reaction to this. He had to have known that they’d be walking into a minefield, talking to her parents together about the money going out to Vivienne and to Mignon, but in his Freddie innocence, he hadn’t considered exactly how many mines lay within that field, waiting to explode.

There was silence at the end of Freddie’s remarks. Valerie had her gaze concreted on Bernard. Bernard ran his hand back over his head. He opted for an attempt at redirection, saying to Manette, “I wouldn’t have thought this was possible of you.”

“What?” Manette said.

“You know very well. I thought our relationship was rather different to what it apparently is. My error, I see.”

To which Freddie said quickly, “I say, Bernard, this has nothing to do with Manette,” and with such firmness that Manette looked at her former husband. Freddie put his hand on hers and squeezed it, going on to say, “Her concerns are completely legitimate, in the circumstances. And she only knows about the payments because I told her. This is a family business—”

“And you’re not family,” Bernard snapped. “You were once, but you took yourself out of that position and if you think—”

“Do
not
,” Manette cut in, “talk to Freddie that way. You’re lucky to have him. We’re
all
lucky to have him. He appears to be the only honest person working in a position of responsibility at the company.”

“Does that include you, then?” her father asked.

“I’m not sure that matters,” Manette told him, “because it certainly includes you.” Perhaps, she thought, she would have said nothing at the end of the day, not wishing to be the one to devastate her own mother. But her father’s remarks to Freddie took things too far in Manette’s eyes, although she didn’t pause to consider why this was the case since the only thing her father had actually said was the absolute truth: Freddie wasn’t a member of the family any longer. She’d seen to that. She said to her mother, “I think Dad has something he’d like to say, something he’d like to explain about himself and Vivienne Tully.”

“I’m taking that point very well, Manette,” Valerie said. And to Freddie, “Stop the payments to Vivienne at once. Contact her through the bank to which the payments have gone. Tell them to inform her it’s my decision.”

Bernard said, “That’s not—”

“I don’t care what it is and it isn’t,” Valerie said. “Nor should you. Or have you a reason to be paying her that you’d care to explain?”

Bernard’s expression was agonised. Had things been different, Manette thought she might actually have felt sorry for him. She gave passing consideration to what shits men were, and she waited for her father to attempt to lie his way out of this situation as he was surely going to do, in the hope that she would say nothing about their conversation and what he’d admitted to her about his affair with Vivienne Tully.

But Bernard Fairclough had always been the luckiest bastard on the planet, and that proved to be the case in that moment. For the door burst open as they sat there waiting for Bernard to answer, and the wind swept in. As Manette turned, thinking she and Freddie had left it off the latch, her brother, Nicholas, strode into the room.

LANCASTER
LANCASHIRE

Deborah knew the only course open to her was to speak to the woman with Alatea Fairclough. If indeed she was correct in her surmise that what was going on with Alatea had to do with conceiving a child, then she seriously doubted that Alatea was going to be willing to talk about it, especially to someone who’d already been found out as misrepresenting her true purpose in Cumbria. Nor was she likely to unburden herself to a tabloid journalist. Thus, the other woman seemed like the only possibility to get to the bottom of Alatea’s odd behaviour and to learn whether it had anything to do with the death of Ian Cresswell.

She rang Zed on his mobile. He barked, “You took your bloody sweet time. Where the hell are you? What’s going on? We had a deal and if you’re reneging—”

She said, “They’ve gone into a science building.”

“Well,
that’s
got us nowhere in a basket. Could be she’s just taking a course. Mature student, right? The other could be doing the same thing.”

“I must talk to her, Zed.”

“I thought you already went that route with no result.”

“I don’t mean Alatea. Obviously, she’s not going to talk to me any more than she’s going to talk to you. I mean the other, the woman she fetched from the disabled soldiers’ home. She’s the one I need to talk to.”

“Why?”

And here was where things got tricky. “They seem to have a relationship of some sort. They were talking quite companionably all the way from the car park to the science building. They seemed like friends, and friendships mean confidences shared.”

“They also mean keeping those confidences to oneself.”

“Of course. But I find that, outside of London, the Met have a certain cachet with people. Say ‘Scotland Yard CID’ and show your
identification and suddenly what was sworn to secrecy gets offered for police consumption.”