Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

Charlie was unwilling to acknowledge how right he was. ‘You should have phoned me straight away. You’ve got my number. I gave it to Steph when I booked.’

Graham groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Look, most people don’t appreciate it when the proprietors of their holiday accommodation take an active interest in their family feuds. I know we almost—’

‘Exactly.’

‘—but we didn’t, did we? So I was playing hard to get. Briefly, yes—I admit it, Officer—but at least I had a go. Anyway, I thought she’d phone you. She didn’t seem annoyed anymore. She apologised to me.’

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure? Are you sure this was my sister, not just someone who looked like her?’

‘It was Fat Girl Slim as I live and breathe.’ Graham rolled away so that she couldn’t hit him. ‘We had quite a nice chat, actually. She seemed to have revised her opinion of me.’

‘Don’t assume that, just because she wasn’t laying into you.’

‘I didn’t. No initiative or guesswork was required. She told me. Said I’d be much better for you than Simon Waterhouse. Which reminds me: you didn’t answer my question.’

Charlie was furious with her sister for interfering. She wondered if Olivia’s new approach was a more subtle way of trying to ensure that Charlie and Graham didn’t start a relationship. Was she relying on Charlie’s rebellious streak to kick in?

‘Nothing’s going on with me and Simon,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

Graham looked worried. ‘Except you’re in love with him.’

I could easily deny it, thought Charlie. ‘Yes,’ she said.

He bounced back quicker than most men would have. ‘I’ll grow on you, you’ll see,’ he said, chirpy again. Charlie thought he might be right. She could make him right if she tried, surely. She didn’t have to be another Naomi Jenkins, falling apart because some bastard told her to leave him alone. A bigger bastard than Simon Waterhouse; Charlie was doing better than Naomi on every front. Robert Haworth. A rapist. Prue Kelvey’s rapist. Charlie was still struggling to take in the implications.

Against Simon’s advice, she’d given Naomi a full update on the phone this afternoon. She couldn’t exactly say she’d grown to like the woman, and she certainly didn’t trust her, but she thought she understood how Naomi’s mind worked. A bit too well. An otherwise intelligent woman made foolish by the strength of her feelings.

Naomi had taken the news about the DNA match better than Charlie had expected her to. She’d gone silent for a while, but when she spoke, she sounded calm. She’d told Charlie that the only way she could deal with any of this was by finding out the truth, all of it. There wouldn’t be any more lies from Naomi Jenkins—Charlie was convinced of that.

Naomi was due to talk to Juliet Haworth again tomorrow. If Juliet was involved in some kind of sick money-making scheme with the man who’d raped Naomi and Sandy Freeguard, Naomi was possibly the only person who could provoke her into letting something slip. For some reason that Charlie couldn’t discern, Naomi was important to Juliet. Nobody else was, certainly not her husband—Juliet had made that abundantly clear. ‘I’ll make her tell me,’ Naomi had said shakily on the phone. Charlie admired her determination, but warned her not to underestimate Juliet’s.

‘Well, I’m not in love with the dogsbody, you’ll be glad to hear,’ said Graham, yawning. ‘Though I have . . . taken a dip, shall we say. Every now and then. But she’s nothing compared to you, Sarge, however corny that sounds. I’ve had more than enough of her. You’re the one I want, with your tyrannical charm and your impossibly high standards.’

‘They are not!’

Graham snorted with laughter, folded his arms behind his head. ‘Sarge, I can’t even begin to understand what you require of me, let alone deliver it.’

‘Yeah, well. Don’t give up too easily.’ Charlie feigned sulkiness. Graham had slept with Steph. Taken a dip. She could hardly complain, given what she’d just told him.

‘Aha! I can prove that Steph means nothing to me. Wait till you hear this.’ His eyes twinkled.

‘You’re a ruthless gossip, Graham Angilley!’

‘Remember the song? Grandmaster Flash?’ He began to sing. ‘White lines, going through my mind . . .’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘Steph, the dogsbod, has got a white line dividing her bum in half. Next time you come to the chalets, I’ll get her to show you.’

‘No thanks.’

‘It looks as ridiculous as it sounds. Now, you know I could never be serious about a woman like that.’

‘A white line?’

‘Yeah. She spends hours on sunbeds, and as a result her arse is bright orange.’ Graham smiled. ‘But if you were to—how shall I put this?—separate one buttock from the other—’

‘All right, I get the gist!’

‘—you’d see a clear white stripe. You can see it a little bit even when she’s just walking around.’

‘Does she often walk around naked?’

‘Actually, yes,’ said Graham. ‘She’s got a bit of a thing for me.’

‘Which you’ve done nothing to encourage, of course.’

‘Of course not!’ Graham faked outrage.

His mobile phone began to ring and he picked it up. ‘Yup.’ He mouthed, ‘White line,’ at Charlie, so that she didn’t have to wonder who he was speaking to. ‘Uh-huh. Okay. Okay. Great. Well done, mate. You’ve earned your stripes, as they say.’ He nudged Charlie.

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Well?’

‘No Naomi Jenkins. Never been to the chalets.’

‘Oh.’

‘But she checked for any Naomis, being the thorough little terrier that she is. There was a Naomi Haworth—H, a, w, o, r, t, h—booked a chalet for a weekend last September. Naomi and Robert Haworth, but Steph said the wife made the booking. Is that any use to you?’

‘Yes.’ Charlie sat up, pushing Graham’s hand off her. She needed to concentrate.

‘Before you get your hopes up . . .’

‘What?’

‘She cancelled. The Haworths never turned up. Steph remembers her cancelling and says she sounded upset. Sounded like she was crying, in fact. Steph wondered if the husband had dumped her or died or something, and that was why she was having to cancel.’

‘Right.’ Charlie nodded. ‘Right. That’s . . . great, that’s really helpful.’

‘Are you going to tell me now what it’s all about?’ Graham tickled her.

‘Stop it! No, I can’t.’

‘I bet you’d tell this Simon Waterhouse character all the details.’

‘He already knows as much as I do.’ Charlie grinned at his hurt look. ‘He’s one of my detectives.’

‘So you see him every day?’ Graham sighed, falling back on the bed. ‘Just my luck.’

19

Friday, April 7

YVON SITS BESIDE me on the sofa and places a small cake plate between us. There’s a sandwich on it. She doesn’t look at it, doesn’t want to draw it to my attention in case that inspires me to reject it.

I stare at the television’s blank grey screen. To embark upon eating anything, even this soft white bread, would be too much of an undertaking. Like setting off to run a marathon while you’re still recovering from a general anaesthetic.

‘You haven’t eaten all day,’ says Yvon.

‘You haven’t been with me all day.’

‘You’ve eaten?’

‘No,’ I admit. I don’t know how much of the day is left. It’s dark outside, that’s all I know. What does it matter? If Yvon hadn’t turned up, I wouldn’t have left my bedroom. There is only space in my head for you at the moment, nothing else. Thinking about what you said and what it meant. Hearing the coldness and the distance in your voice over and over. In a year, in ten years, I’ll still be able to play it in my mind.