The Truth-Teller's Lie (6 page)

The walls are covered with framed pages of old newspapers: the
Rawndesley Telegraph
, the
Rawndesley Evening Post
. I glance at the one nearest to me. In one column is the story of an execution that took place in Spilling in 1903. There is a picture of a noose and, beside it, another of the unfortunate criminal. The second column has the headline ‘Silsford farmer wins prize for best pig’, and a sketch of the animal and its owner, both looking proud. The pig is called Snorter.

I blink away tears. Finally, I am seeing all the things you have seen, your world. Yesterday it was your house, today this pub. I feel as if I’m taking a guided tour of your life. I hoped it might bring me closer to you, but it has the opposite effect. It’s horrible. I feel as if I’m looking at your past, not your present, and certainly not anything I could ever share. It’s as if I’m trapped behind a glass screen or a cordon of red rope and I can’t reach you. I want to scream out your name.

‘I’ll have a double gin and tonic,’ says Yvon loudly. She is trying to sound jolly for my sake, as if we’re here for a fun day out. ‘Naomi?’

‘Half a lager shandy,’ I hear myself say. I haven’t had this drink for years. When I’m with you, I only ever drink the Pinot Grigio you bring, or the tea that’s in our Traveltel room.

The barman nods. ‘Coming right up,’ he says. He has a broad Rawndesley accent.

‘Do you know Robert Haworth?’ I blurt out, too frantic to waste time thinking about the best way to approach the subject. Yvon looks worried: I told her I’d be subtle.

‘Nope. Should I?’

‘He’s a regular. He comes here all the time.’

‘Well, we think he does,’ Yvon corrects me. She is my more moderate shadow, here to dilute whatever effect I might have. With me, in private, she’s sarcastic and opinionated, but in public she is keen to obey social norms. Perhaps you’d understand this better than I do. I often think, when you look troubled and remote, that there’s a struggle going on inside you, forces pulling in opposite directions. I’ve never been like that, not even before I met you. I’ve always been an all-one-way sort of person. And ever since the first time I saw you, I’ve been pulled entirely towards you. Nothing else stands a chance.

‘He does,’ I say firmly. When Yvon looked in the Yellow Pages this morning, she found what she called ‘three contenders’: the Star Inn in Spilling, the Star and Garter in Combingham and Star Bar in Silsford. I ruled out the last two immediately. Combingham is miles away and grim, and I know Star Bar. I sometimes pop in, if I’m visiting a customer nearby, and have a pot of organic mint tea. The idea of you sitting on those low leather banquettes reading the infusions menu nearly made me laugh out loud.

‘I’ve got a photo of him on my phone,’ I tell the barman. ‘You’ll know him when you see him.’

He nods amiably. ‘Could be,’ he says, putting our drinks on the bar. ‘That’ll be seven pounds twenty-five, please. There are lots of faces I can’t put names to.’

I pull my phone out of my bag, trying to prepare myself for the worst, as I do every time. It doesn’t get easier. If anything it gets harder. I want to howl when I see that there is no small envelope icon on the screen. Still no message from you. A fresh burst of pain and fear mixed with sheer disbelief makes my chest contract. I think about DS Zailer and DC Waterhouse, and want to smash their dense, unresponsive heads together. They as good as admitted that they planned to do nothing.

‘What about Sean and Tony?’ I snap at the barman, scrolling through the photographs on my phone while Yvon pays for our drinks. ‘Do you know them?’

My question elicits a throaty laugh. ‘Sean and Tony? You’re having me on, right?’

‘No.’ I stop fiddling with my phone and look up. My heart is racing. The names mean something to him.

‘No? Well, I’m Sean. And Tony also works here, behind the bar. He’ll be in this evening.’

‘But . . .’ I am at a loss for words. ‘Robert talked about you as if . . .’ I assumed that you, Sean and Tony came here together. Thinking about it now, you never actually said that was what happened. I must have made it up, leaped to the wrong conclusion.

You come here alone. Sean and Tony are here already because they work here.

I turn back to my phone. I don’t want Yvon to see that I am confused. How can this development be anything but good? I have found Sean and Tony. They know you, they’re your friends. All I need to do is show Sean a photograph and he’ll recognise you. I choose the one of you standing in front of your lorry outside the Traveltel, and pass my phone across the bar.

I see instant recognition in Sean’s eyes and allow myself to breathe again.

‘Elvis!’ He chuckles. ‘Tony and me call him Elvis. To his face, like. He doesn’t mind.’

I nearly burst into tears. Sean
is
your friend. He even has a nickname for you.

‘Why do you call him that?’ asks Yvon.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

Yvon and I shake our heads.

‘He looks like a bigger version of Elvis Costello, doesn’t he? Elvis Costello after he’s eaten all the pies.’ Sean laughs at his witticism. ‘We said that to him an’ all.’

‘You didn’t know his name was Robert Haworth?’ says Yvon. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that she is looking at me, not at Sean.

‘I don’t think he ever told us his name. He’s just always been Elvis. Is he okay? Tony and me were saying last night we haven’t seen Elvis for a while.’

‘When?’ I say sharply. ‘When did you last see him?’

Sean frowns. I must have sounded too fraught. I’ve put him off.
Idiot
. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he says.

‘I’m Robert’s girlfriend.’ I have never said this before. I wish I could say it over and over again. I wish I could say wife instead of girlfriend.

‘Did he ever mention a Naomi?’ asks Yvon.

‘Nope.’

‘What about Juliet?’

Sean shakes his head. He is starting to look wary.

‘Look, this is really important,’ I say. This time I make sure my voice is calm and not too loud. ‘Robert’s been missing since last Thursday . . .’

‘Hang on . . .’ Yvon touches my arm. ‘We don’t know that.’

‘I know it.’ I shake her off. ‘When did you last see him?’ I ask Sean.

He is nodding. ‘Would’ve been around then,’ he said. ‘Thursday, Wednesday, something like that. But he’s normally in most nights for a sly pint and a chat, so after a few nights of him not turning up, me and Tony started wondering. Not that it doesn’t happen, mind. We get loads of punters like that: regular as clockwork for years and then suddenly, boof! They’re gone and you never clap eyes on them again.’

‘And he didn’t say anything about going away?’ I ask, though I already know the answer. ‘He didn’t mention any plans to go on holiday or anything?’

‘Did he say anything about Kent?’ Yvon chips in.

Sean shakes his head. ‘Nothing like that. He said, “See you tomorrow,” same as always.’ He laughs. ‘Sometimes he said, “See you tomorrow, Sean, if we’re spared.” If we’re spared! Bit of a gloomy sod, isn’t he?’

I stare at the dark wooden floorboards, blood pounding in my ears. I’ve never heard you use that expression. What if you said it to Sean for a reason? What if, this time, you have not been spared?

Yvon is thanking Sean for his help, as if the conversation is over. ‘Wait,’ I say, dragging myself out of the haze of dread that temporarily silenced me. ‘What’s your surname? What’s Tony’s?’

‘Naomi . . .’ Yvon sounds alarmed.

‘Is it all right if I give your names to the police? You can tell them what you’ve just told us, that you agree that Robert’s missing.’

‘He didn’t say that,’ says Yvon.

‘I don’t mind. Like I say, me and Tony did think it was a bit funny. Mine’s Hennage, Sean Hennage. Tony’s is Willder.’

‘Wait here,’ I say to Yvon, and I’m outside with my bag and my phone before she has a chance to object.

I sit at one of the white-painted metal tables and pull my coat tight around me, tugging my sleeves down over my hands. It’ll be a while before people are drinking outside. It is spring in name only. I watch three swans glide down the river in a line as I dial the number I spent an hour tracking down this morning, the one that will get me straight through to CID at Spilling Police Station. I wanted to phone immediately to ask what exactly Detective Sergeant Zailer and Detective Constable Waterhouse were doing about trying to find you, but Yvon said it was too soon, I had to give them a chance.

I am certain that they are doing nothing. I don’t think they will lift a finger to help you. They believe you’ve left me by choice, that you’ve chosen Juliet over me and you’re too scared to tell me this directly. Only you and I know how ridiculous that idea is.

A Detective Constable Gibbs answers the phone. He tells me that Zailer and Waterhouse are both out. His manner is offhand, verging on rude. Does he so resent speaking to me that he is trying to use as few words as possible in response to my questions? That’s the impression I get. He has probably heard all about me and thinks I’m some kind of bunny-boiler, hounding you when you’d rather be left alone, sending the police to do my dirty work. When I tell him that I want to leave a message, he pretends he has a pen, pretends he is writing down Sean and Tony’s names, but he can’t be. He growls, ‘Got it,’ too quickly. I can tell when someone is really making a note of something—there are long pauses, and sometimes they repeat bits under their breath, or check spellings.

Detective Constable Gibbs does none of these things. He puts the phone down while I am still talking to him.

I walk over to the white-painted iron railings that separate the pub’s terrace from the river. I ought to ring the police station again, demand to speak to the most senior person in the building—a chief constable or chief superintendent—and complain about the way I’ve been treated. I am brilliant at complaining. It is what I was doing the first time you saw me, and it’s why you fell in love with me—you always tell me that. I had no idea you were watching, listening, otherwise I’m sure I would have toned it down a bit. Thank God I didn’t. Beautifully savage: that’s how you describe the way I was that day.

It would never occur to you to protest about anything—on your own behalf, I mean; you would always stick up for me. But that’s why you admire my fighting spirit, my conviction that misery and shoddiness do not have to be part of life. You’re impressed that I have the nerve to aim absurdly high.

I can’t go back into the pub, not yet. I am too churned up. Tears of rage fill my eyes, blurring the cold, slow-moving water in front of me. I hate myself when I cry, really loathe myself. It doesn’t do any good. What’s the point of resolving never to be weak and helpless again if all you can do when your lover vanishes into thin air is stand beside a river and weep? It’s pathetic.

Yvon will tell me again to give the police a chance, but why should I? Why aren’t Detective Sergeant Zailer and Detective Constable Waterhouse here at the Star, asking Sean when he last saw you? Will they bother to go to your house and speak to Juliet? Unaccounted-for married lovers must be bottom of their list of priorities. Especially now, when all over the country, it sometimes seems, networks of maniacs are planning to blow themselves up and take train-loads of innocent men, women and children with them. Dangerous criminals—those are the people the police care about finding.

My heart jolts as an impossible idea begins to take shape in my mind. I try to push it down but it won’t go away; it advances from the shadows slowly, gradually, like a figure emerging from a dark cave. I wipe my eyes. No, I can’t do it. Even to think about it feels like a terrible betrayal. I’m sorry, Robert. I must be going properly mad. Nobody would do that. Besides, it would be a physical impossibility. I wouldn’t be able to utter the words.

What kind of a person does that? Nobody!
That’s what Yvon said when I told her about how we met, how you drew yourself to my attention. I told you she’d said it, remember? You smiled and said, ‘Tell her I’m the person who does the things nobody would do.’ I did tell her. She mimed sticking her finger down her throat.

I clutch the railings for support, feeling wrung out, as if this new fear that has suddenly saturated me might dissolve my bones and muscles. ‘I can’t do it, Robert,’ I whisper, knowing it’s pointless. I had this exact same sensation when we first met: an unwavering certainty that everything that was going to happen had been laid down long ago by an authority far more powerful than me, one that owed me nothing, entered into no contract with me, yet compelled me entirely. I couldn’t have tampered with it, however hard I’d tried.

It’s the same this time. The decision has already been made.

 

Sean smiles at me as I walk back into the pub—a bland, cartoon smile, as if he hasn’t met me before, as if we haven’t just agreed that you are missing, that there is cause for serious concern. Yvon sits at the table furthest from the bar, playing with her mobile phone. She’s got a new game on it that she’s addicted to. It’s clear that, in my absence, she and Sean have not been talking to one another. It makes me angry. Why am I always the one who has to drive everything?

‘We’ve got to go,’ I say to Yvon.

Her name has not always been Yvon. I’ve never told you this. There’s a lot I haven’t told you about her. I stopped mentioning her after it occurred to me that you might be jealous. I am not married, and apart from you Yvon is the most important person in my life. I am closer to her than I am to any of my family. She has lived with me ever since her divorce, which is another thing I haven’t told you about.

She’s tiny and skinny—five feet tall, seven and a half stone—and has long, straight brown hair that reaches her waist. Usually she wears it in a ponytail that she twists round her arm when she’s working, or playing games on her computer. Every few months she chain-smokes Consulate menthol cigarettes for between a week and a fortnight, but then she gives up again. I’m never allowed to mention these lapses from healthy living once they’re over.