Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

The Snowman unleashed a small tidal wave of tea as he whirled round, faster on his feet than Fred Astaire. Simon wished Charlie wasn’t away on holiday. For some reason, life was always bad when she wasn’t around. ‘Robert Haworth has a wife and a mistress,’ said Proust. ‘More precisely, he has a wife who’s found out about his mistress, and a mistress who won’t allow him to call it a day. You’re not married, Waterhouse, so you perhaps won’t know this, but living with one woman who claims to be reasonably fond of you and whom you’ve never wronged in any appreciable way is hard enough. Take it from me, as a man who’s done thirty-two years’ hard labour in the matrimonial field. To have two to deal with, one at each ear, both blubbing about how betrayed they feel . . . well, I’d have gone a lot further than Kent if I were him.’

Hard labour in the matrimonial field? That was a classic. Simon would have to remember it, pass it on to Charlie. It was only thanks to the unstinting efforts of Lizzie Proust that the Snowman was able to appear to be a sane, functioning human being for even a fraction of the time.

If this conversation had taken place two years ago, or even last year, Simon would have been feeling hot and impatient by this stage, gritting his teeth and fast-forwarding, mentally, to the day when he would break Proust’s nose with his forehead. Today, he felt weary from the effort of remaining in adult mode while talking to a man who was effectively a child. Oh, very good, Waterhouse, very psychological, Proust would have said.

Simon wondered whether it would be reasonable to start thinking of himself as someone who used to have a violent temper. Or was it too soon for that?

‘What would you have done, sir? Are you saying that, on the basis of what we knew yesterday morning, you’d have chased it up with the Kent police?’

Proust never gave you the satisfaction of an answer. ‘Risk assessment, ’ he said scornfully, though he was the person who had given Simon the ACPO 2005 guidelines on missing persons procedure and instructed him to commit every word to memory. ‘Haworth’s at risk, all right, and I shouldn’t have to tell you why. He’s at risk because he’s involved, in some way that has yet to be determined, with this Naomi Jenkins woman. Risk assessment! She turns up one day and reports him missing, claiming he’s been her lover for the past year and she’s lost without him, and then the next day she’s back saying forget all that, it was all a big lie, and accusing Haworth of a three-year-old abduction and rape?’ He shook his head. ‘This’ll be a murder investigation by the end of the week, you watch.’

‘I’m not sure, sir. I think it’s premature to assume that.’

‘I wouldn’t need to assume anything if you’d taken control of the situation in a professional way!’ Proust yelled at him. ‘Why didn’t you interview Naomi Jenkins properly on Monday, get the full story out of her then?’

‘We did . . .’

‘This woman’s wrapping us round her little finger. She comes in whenever she feels like it, says whatever she fancies saying, and all you can do is nod and write down each new lie in great detail—a missing person report one minute, a rape statement the next. She’s staging a pantomime, and she’s cast you as the hind legs of the donkey!’

‘Sergeant Zailer and I—’

‘What, in the name of all things bright and beautiful, were you thinking of, taking a rape statement from her? Clearly she’s a rabid fantasist, and yet you choose to indulge her!’

Simon thought about Naomi Jenkins’ account of her rape, what she said those men had done to her. It was the worst thing he’d ever heard. He considered telling Proust how he’d actually, honestly, felt when she’d told him. No chance. The physical proximity of the Snowman repelled any ideas he’d foolishly harboured about the possibility of genuine communication taking place; you only had to take one look at the man.

‘If she’s lying about the rape, how do you explain the letter, signed N.J., that she sent to that website in May 2003?’

‘It’s a fantasy she’s had for years—since birth for all I know or care,’ said Proust impatiently. ‘Then she met Haworth and fleshed it out a little, added him to her absurd tale. Nothing she says can be relied upon.’

‘I agree her behaviour’s suspicious,’ said Simon. ‘Her instability’s obviously cause for greater concern about Haworth’s safety.’ We don’t disagree, he might have added. Pointless. ‘Which is why, as soon as I’d finished taking her statement, I did get on to Kent police. And they’ve just got back to me.’ In other words, you narrow-minded shit, I’ve got some facts you might be interested in if you’re willing to stop chucking blame at me for two seconds. Simon had a sense of his words trickling back to him, having failed to get through, failed to permeate the rigid, invisible barrier that surrounded Proust at all times.

He persisted. ‘The address Juliet Haworth gave me exists, but no one there knows anything about Robert Haworth.’

‘She’s unstable as well,’ said the Snowman flatly, as if he suspected the two women in Robert Haworth’s life of deliberately conspiring to create problems for him, Giles Proust. ‘Well? Have you been back to the house and searched it? Have you searched Naomi Jenkins’ house? If you’d read the new missing persons gubbins I gave you—’

‘I have read it,’ Simon cut in. The ACPO 2005 guidelines for the management of missing persons were hardly new. Proust was averse to change. For weeks after the clocks went forward or back, he made a distinction between ‘old time’ and ‘new time’.

‘—you’d know that under Section 17, part c—or is it d?—you can enter any premises if you have cause to believe someone’s at risk—’

‘I know all that, sir. I just wanted to check with you first, as Sergeant Zailer’s away.’

‘Well, what did you think I’d say? A man’s missing. His bit on the side’s a conniving lunatic, and his wife, far from being worried about his whereabouts, is actively trying to put you off the scent. What did you think I’d say? Put your feet up and forget all about it?’

‘Of course not, sir.’ I have to consult you, you fucking wanker. Did Proust think Simon enjoyed their little exchanges? It wasn’t as bad when Charlie was around: she acted as a buffer, shielding her team from the inspector’s bullying as much as she could. She also, more and more in recent months, made decisions that by rights were Proust’s to make, in order to minimise his stress and allow him to have the sort of short, easy days he liked.

‘Of course not, sir,’ Proust mimicked. He sighed and swallowed a yawn—a sign that he’d run out of steam. ‘Do the obvious things, Waterhouse. Search Jenkins’ house, and Haworth’s. Run the usual credit-card and telephony checks. Talk to everyone Haworth knows: friends, work contacts. You know what to do.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, and while I’m underlining the absolutely elementary: bring in Naomi Jenkins’ computer. We’ll be able to tell, won’t we, whether the letter she claims she sent to the rape website originated from her machine?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Simon, thinking, Someone will, you won’t. Proust was an expert on everything that required no expertise, that was his problem. ‘If it’s the same machine. She might have bought a new one since.’

‘Get Sellers and Gibbs on to it too. As of today, it’s our highest priority.’

You get them on to it, Simon nearly made the mistake of saying. Was Proust preparing for retirement, he wondered, handing out his responsibilities to anyone who’d have them?