Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

Sellers wasn’t paying attention. ‘Why does Juliet Haworth think I don’t care about knowing the truth? Arrogant bitch. Why would you care more than I do?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘Does she think I’m thick or something? Unimaginative? That’s fucking ironic. She ought to hear the story I’ve told Stace to cover my week away with Suki. You know, I’ve even typed up a programme of activities for our team-building retreat, on police headed paper?’

‘I don’t want to know,’ said Simon. ‘I’m not lying to Stacey if I meet her while you’re away and she asks me why I’m not with you in . . . wherever we’re supposed to be.’

Sellers chuckled. ‘You say that now, mate, but I know you would lie for me, if it came to it. Let’s have less of the false modesty!’

Simon was keen to drop the subject. They’d discussed it before, too often. Sellers was always good-humoured in the face of criticism, which irritated Simon nearly as much as having his scruples treated as if they were some kind of endearing affectation. Sellers was unimaginative, in this respect at least: he couldn’t conceive of anyone genuinely, sincerely, disapproving of his ongoing infidelity. Why should anybody want to spoil his fun, when it was all gain and no pain, nobody was getting hurt? He was too optimistic, Simon thought. It was fun at the moment, and Sellers couldn’t see that it had the potential to turn into anything else. Like losing his wife and kids, if Stacey Sellers ever found out. Until you’ve really suffered, thought Simon, you can’t imagine what that level of pain might feel like.

‘I had an idea for Gibbs’ wedding present,’ said Sellers. ‘I know it’s not for ages, but I want to get it sorted sooner rather than later. I’ve got more important things to think about.’ He made a lewd gesture. ‘Holiday preparations . . . lubrications . . . ejaculations . . .’

‘Marital separations,’ muttered Simon, thinking about the poem Juliet Haworth had written on the envelope. She wasn’t a typical lorry driver’s wife, any more than Naomi Jenkins was the average lorry driver’s mistress. They’ve got more in common with each other than with him, thought Simon. Hard to know if he was right, with Haworth saying even less than the two women were. ‘What’s the idea?’ he asked Sellers.

‘A sundial.’

Simon laughed in his face. ‘For Gibbs? Wouldn’t he prefer a can of Special Brew? Or a porn video?’

‘You know the Snowman’s got a book about sundials?’

‘Yeah. Do you know who bought him that book, and didn’t get paid back?’

‘I had a look at it. You can get this thing put on called a nodus.’

‘You mean a gnomon?’

‘No, all sundials have got those. A nodus is usually a round ball, although it doesn’t have to be. It goes on the gnomon, so that there’s like a blob that stands out on the edge of the shadow. Anyway, you can have a horizontal line put on the dial if you’ve got a special date or something—Gibbs and Debbie’s wedding day for example. The horizontal date line crosses the downward time lines, the ones that mark out the hours and half-hours. And on that date every year, the shadow of the nodus follows the line all the way along. Do you get what I mean?’

‘The specifics are irrelevant,’ said Simon. ‘In general, it’s a bad idea. Gibbs wouldn’t want a sundial. He’d perk up when he heard the words “date line”, but ultimately he’d be disappointed.’

‘Debbie might want one.’ Sellers sounded hurt. ‘They’re nice, sundials. I’d like one. Proust said he would too.’

‘Debbie wants to marry Gibbs. We can assume her taste’s as bad as his.’

‘All right, you fucking killjoy! I just wanted to get it sorted, that’s all. When I get back from my week with Suki, the wedding’ll only be a couple of days off. You lot’ll have to sort it while I’m away, if you leave it till the last minute. God, talk about putting a dampener on things. I know Gibbs isn’t exactly—’

‘Exactly.’

‘—but, you know, I just thought maybe we should aim high for a change.’

‘“Look up in the sun’s eye and give what the exultant heart calls good that some new day might breed the best, because you gave not what they would but the right twigs for an eagle’s nest.”’ Simon smiled. He wondered if Juliet Haworth would recognise the quote. Sellers didn’t. ‘W. B. Yeats. But he’d never met Chris Gibbs, and if he had, he’d have thought again.’

‘Forget it,’ said Sellers wearily.

‘Which way round do you think it is?’ Simon asked him. ‘Did Robert Haworth rape Naomi Jenkins and tell his wife about it? Or was Jenkins raped by someone else, confided in her lover, and then he broke her confidence and told his wife?’

‘Fuck knows,’ said Sellers. ‘In both scenarios you’re assuming Haworth told Juliet about the rape. Maybe Naomi Jenkins told her. I can’t get it out of my head that the two of them might be working together to mislead us. They’re both cocky cows, and we know they’ve both lied. What if they aren’t the enemies and rivals they seem to be?’

‘What if anything?’ said Simon despondently. ‘With Haworth still unconscious and both women messing us around, we’re getting fucking nowhere, aren’t we?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Charlie, coming up the corridor behind them. Simon and Sellers turned round. Her face was grim. She didn’t sound pleased, as she normally did when progress was being made. ‘Simon, I need a DNA sample from Haworth as soon as possible. And not one forensics took from the house, before you tell me we’ve already got it. I want one from the man himself. I’m not taking any chances.’ Charlie was marching as she spoke; Simon heard Sellers panting behind him as they struggled to keep up with her.

‘Sellers, get me background on Haworth, Juliet Haworth and Naomi Jenkins. Where’s Gibbs?’

‘Not sure,’ said Sellers.

‘Not good enough. I want Yvon Cotchin brought in for questioning, Jenkins’s lodger. And get forensics on to Robert Haworth’s lorry.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked Sellers, red in the face, once the sound of Charlie’s high heels click-clacking along the corridor had faded.

Simon didn’t want to guess, didn’t want to speculate about what might constitute both progress and bad news. ‘You can’t keep covering for Gibbs,’ he changed the subject. ‘What’s wrong with him, anyway? Is it the wedding?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Sellers determinedly. Simon thought of the sundial on Naomi Jenkins’ business card, its motto. He couldn’t remember the Latin, but it translated as ‘I only count the sunny hours.’ That was Sellers to a tee.

13

Thursday, April 6

SERGEANT ZAILER UNLOCKS the door of my cell. I try to stand up, and only realise how worn out I am when my knees buckle and a jangling noise starts up inside my head. Before I manage to convert the tangle of my thoughts into a coherent question, Sergeant Zailer says, ‘Robert’s doing well. The haemorrhaging’s stopped and the swelling’s going down.’

This news is all I need by way of an energy boost. ‘You mean he’s going to be okay? He’ll wake up?’

‘I don’t know. The doctor I just spoke to said that with head injuries nothing is predictable. I’m sorry.’

I should have known: the ordeal is never over. It’s like an endless race—the straight white finishing line dissolves into powder and scatters as I approach, and as it disappears, I glimpse a new line in the distance. And then I run towards that one, panting for my life, and the same thing happens. One wait comes to an end and another starts. It is this that is eroding me more than lack of sleep. I feel as if there’s an animal trapped inside me, straining to get out, rocking back and forth. If only I could find a way to be still inside my head, I wouldn’t mind lying awake all night.