Believing the Lie (56 page)

“I’m afraid it is at this point.” She said to Nicholas, “The police are here because of me. Your father fetched them at my request. It was not his idea. Do you understand? He went to London. He did the legwork because he knows someone at New Scotland Yard. But it was no more his idea than”—she gestured to Manette and Freddie, still holding each other’s hand on the sofa—“than it was your sister’s. Or Mignon’s. Or anyone else’s.
I
wanted this, Nicholas. No one else.”

Nicholas looked like a man who’d taken a mortal blow. He finally said, “My own bloody mother. Did you actually think…You thought…?”

“It’s not quite what you’re concluding,” she said.

“That I might…that I could have…” Then he hit his fist on the mantelpiece. Manette winced at the force he used. “I’d kill Ian? That’s what you think? That I was capable of murder? What’s the matter with you?”

“Nick. Enough.” Bernard had spoken. “If nothing else, you’ve a history of—”

“I goddamn know my history. I lived it. You bloody well don’t need to recite it for me. But unless I spent a decade or two of my history in some sort of fugue, I don’t recall ever lifting a hand against anyone.”

“No one,” Valerie said, “lifted a hand against Ian, either. That’s not how he died.”

“Then what the hell—”

“Valerie,” Bernard said. “This will make things worse.”

“They can’t get worse,” Nicholas said. “Unless there’s another reason Mother wanted Scotland Yard up here. Want me to think that, do you? Are they investigating Manette? What about Mignon? What about Fred? Or has he just continued running to do Manette’s bidding as usual?”

Manette said, “Don’t you dare take this out on Freddie. And
yes
the detective has been to see us. And the first we knew there
was
a detective was when we had a Scotland Yard ID shoved under our noses.”

“Well at least you got that much,” he said. And to his mother, “Have you any idea—any bloody idea at all—”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. But there are things beyond your hurt—”

“Like what?” he shouted. And then the pieces seemed to fall into place. “Is this about the family business? Who gets what. Who runs what. Who has the power. And when and how.”

“Nicholas, please. There are other things—”

“D’you think I care about any of that? D’you think I want it? D’you think that’s why I’m here, back at home? I don’t give a toss who runs the business. Give it to Manette. Give it to Freddie. Give it to someone off the street. Do you have any idea what this has done to Alatea, having someone actually come into our home, someone prowling round pretending to be…This…this investigator of yours has lied to us from the first, Mother. Do you understand that? She’s come to the house, she’s told a stupid tale about why she’s here, she’s frightened Allie, who now, apparently, thinks…Oh God, I don’t know
what
she thinks, but she’s in a state and if she thinks I’m using…Don’t you see what you’ve done? My own wife…If she walks out on me…”

“She?” Bernard spoke. “‘She’s come to the house’? Nick, what are you talking about?”

“What the hell do you think I’m talking about? Your sodding Scotland Yard investigator.”

“It’s a man,” Valerie said. “Nicholas, it’s a man, not a woman. It’s a man…We know nothing about—”

“Oh too right, Mum.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Manette told her brother.

“He has someone with him,” Bernard added. “But it’s another man, Nick. A forensic specialist. Another man. If a woman’s been to Arnside House to talk to you and Alatea, it’s to do with something else entirely.”

Nicholas blanched then. He was making connections rapidly. Manette could see that much as the thoughts passed quickly across his face.

Unaccountably he said,
“Montenegro.”

“Who?” Bernard asked.

But as swiftly as Nicholas had entered Ireleth Hall, just as swiftly he left it.

LANCASTER
LANCASHIRE

Deborah’s two hours in a parked car with Zed Benjamin were broken only by a single call on her mobile. She thought it might be Simon, and she glanced to see, rapidly assessing whether she should answer or let it go to her voice mail rather than risk something less than an “official” conversation in the presence of the journalist. It was Tommy, though. She reckoned she could work with that.

She said to Zed, “My guv,” and when she answered she said, “Inspector Lynley. Hullo.”

“That’s a formal touch.”

“All due respect,” Deborah told him cheerfully. She felt Zed’s eyes on her. She kept her own fixed on the disabled soldiers’ home.

“If only I received that at work,” Tommy said. Then, “I’ve met up with Simon.”

“I thought you might have done.”

“He’s unhappy with both of us. With me for getting you into this. With you for not getting out of it. Where are you now?”

“Still in Lancaster.”

“How did you get there?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Deborah, Simon’s rung me from your hotel.”

“You said you
saw
him.”

“This was afterwards. He went back to the hotel, you were gone, but your hire car’s there. He’s obviously concerned.”

“Not enough to ring me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Deb. Have some pity on the man. He knows you’re in a temper. He knows you won’t answer the phone if you see he’s the caller.
How
did you get to Lancaster?”

She had no choice, but she did need to be careful with her phrasing. “Mr. Benjamin from
The Source
is working with me at the moment, sir.”

She heard his mild curse so she quickly went on. “I’m waiting to speak to the woman who was with Alatea. They paid a call upon someone at the Faculty of Science and Technology and we need to know why.”

“Deb.” She could hear in his voice that he wasn’t sure what approach to take with her just now. What would work? he was wondering. An appeal to her wiser nature? A veiled reference to their own past as lovers? It was an interesting position for him to be in, she reckoned.

He said, “You know Simon wants you back in London. He’s worried.”

“I don’t think London’s wise at the moment. I’m very close to something here.”

“That’s exactly what he’s worried about. You’ve been too close to a murderer once before.”

Guernsey, she thought. Like Bogart and Bergman when it came to Paris, she and Simon would always have Guernsey. All right, she’d been hurt. But she hadn’t died. She hadn’t even been close to dying. And this was different since she had no intention of ending up inside an earthen chamber with someone in possession of an antique hand grenade. She said, “This is important somehow. A loose end needing to be tied.”

“It’s hard to disagree with the science behind someone’s death, Deb. Simon’s conclusions are sound.”

“Perhaps. But there’s more here than his conclusions,” she said.

“I don’t disagree. You’re obviously finding Alatea Fairclough one of them. I have Havers on her in London, by the way.”

“So you see—”

“As I said, I don’t disagree. It’s Simon I’m concerned about, frankly.”

“So you do think he could be wrong?”

“He’s far too preoccupied with you. That sometimes blinds someone to what’s right in front of them. Still and all, I can’t allow you—”

“No one’s
allowing
anything.”

“Dreadful choice of words. I can see we’re going to go round and round. If nothing else, I do know you. All right, have a care. Will you do that much?”

“I will. What about you?”

“There are a few loose ends on my end as well. I’ll be doing some tying. You
will
ring me if there’s any reason at all, won’t you?”

“Definitely, Inspector.” She rang off at that. She glanced at Zed Benjamin to see if she’d carried off the conversation without raising his suspicions. But he was in the process of sinking down into his seat as best as he could. He nodded in the direction of the soldiers’ home. Alatea Fairclough and her companion were just making the turn into the car park.

Deborah and Zed remained where they were, and in less than a minute, the other woman came round the side of the building and went inside. Shortly thereafter, Alatea drove out of the car park, heading off in a direction that suggested she was going to retrace her route to Arnside. This was well and good, Deborah thought. It was time to see what she could get from this other woman.

She said to Zed, “I’m off.”

He said, “Quarter of an hour and I’m ringing you on your mobile.”

She said, “You can do that, of course. But do consider you’re my ride back to Milnthorpe so I’m hardly likely to jeopardise that.”

Zed grumbled a bit. He said at the least he was getting out of the bloody car and having a stretch because two hours of waiting in, virtually, a doubled-up position had taken their toll. Deborah said this was fine with her; it was a good idea; she’d be in contact with him should he wander far while she was inside the soldiers’ home.

“Oh, don’t,” Zed said, “worry your head on that score. I’ll be close by.”

Deborah had little doubt about that. He’d lurk in the bushes if he could do so, one ear pressed to a convenient window. But she knew this was as close as she was going to get to a compromise with the man, so she said she’d be as quick as she could, and she crossed the street.

Inside the Kent-Howath Foundation for Disabled Veterans, she decided on a direct approach, having very little other choice in the matter as she didn’t possess police identification. She approached a reception desk and worked upon her most pleasant smile. She said to the receptionist—an antique soldier himself, by the look of him—that she’d just seen a woman come into the building: “rather tall, brown hair tied back, long skirt, boots…?” She was certain this woman was a schoolmate of her own elder sister, and she would very much like to have a moment to speak with her. She knew this was a silly request. After all, the woman might turn out to be a total stranger. On the other hand, if she
was
who Deborah thought she was…

“You mean Lucy, I expect,” the elderly man said. He was wearing a military uniform. It hung upon him like a bride to her husband on her wedding night. His neck rose from its collar, corrugated with flesh. “She’s our social lady. Games and exercises and groups and the like. Going to the pageant at Christmas. That sort of thing.”

“Lucy, yes. That was her name indeed,” Deborah said. “Is there
any
chance…” She cast a hopeful look at him.

“Always a chance for a pretty gel,” he said. “Where’d you get all that lovely hair, eh?”

“Grandmother on my father’s side,” Deborah told him.

“Lucky you. Always had an eye for the ginger, me.” He reached for a phone and punched in a number. He said, “Gorgeous woman out here asking for you, darling,” and then he listened for a moment and added, “No. Someone new this is. How’d you get so popular, eh?” He chuckled at something she apparently said, rang off, and told Deborah that she’d be right out.

Deborah said confidentially, “This is terrible of me, but I can’t exactly recall her surname.”

“Keverne,” he said. “Lucy Keverne. That’d be what she was then and what she is now as she’s not married. Doesn’t even have a boyfriend. I keep trying, but she says I’m too young for her, she does.”

Deborah pooh-poohed this idea as was expected of her and went to wait on a wooden bench across from the receptionist’s desk. She
gave scattered thoughts to what on earth she was going to say to Lucy Keverne, but she had little time to consider her approach. It wasn’t a minute later that the woman she’d seen with Alatea Fairclough came out into reception. She looked, understandably, a little puzzled, as she no doubt would be. Deborah reckoned that entertaining sudden visitors at her place of employment wasn’t a regular feature of her job.

Up close to her, Deborah could see that she was younger than she’d previously thought when viewing her from a distance. Her hair had grey strands wound through it, but these were premature, for her face was of a woman in her twenties. She wore fashionable glasses that complemented her pleasant features.

She cocked her head at Deborah and said, “How may I help you?” as she extended her hand. “Lucy Keverne.”

“Is there a place we can talk?” Deborah asked. “It’s rather a private matter.”

Lucy Keverne frowned. “A private matter? If you’re here to discuss the placement of a relative, I’m not the person you should speak to.”

“No, it’s not that. This rather relates to Lancaster University,” Deborah said. It was a stab in the semidarkness, the George Childress Centre into which she and Alatea had gone providing the only bit of light.

It turned out to be a good stab. “Who are you?” Lucy sounded a bit alarmed. “Who sent you?”

“Is there somewhere we can go?” Deborah said. “Have you an office?”

Lucy Keverne glanced at the receptionist as she considered the various options. She finally said to Deborah, “Come with me, then,” and she took her towards the rear of the building where a sunroom looked out into a garden, which was unexpectedly large. They didn’t take seats in the sunroom, however. It was already occupied. Several elderly gents were nodding over newspapers and two others were playing cribbage in a corner.

Lucy took her through the glass doors and out into the garden. She said, “Who gave you my name?”

“Is that important?” Deborah asked her. “I’m looking for some help. I thought you might be it.”

“You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“Of course,” Deborah said. “Reproduction would be what I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to conceive a baby for years now. It turns out I have a condition that prevents gestation.”

“I’m sorry. That must be very difficult for you. But why would you think I could help you?”

“Because you went into the George Childress Centre with another woman, and I was there. I followed you here once you left the campus, hoping to speak to you.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed as she evaluated this. She would have to consider the potential for danger. They were speaking in a form of code, all of which was perfectly legal at the moment. A few steps in the wrong direction, however, and they could be walking on the other side of the law of the land.