Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘Sir, the only thing you’re likely to find in your lap at the Brown Cow is one of Muriel’s red napkins, before she serves you your lunch,’ Charlie had objected.

‘We come to work to work,’ Proust roared. ‘Not to indulge our tastebuds. A quick dash to the canteen every day—that’s the lunch I’ve had for twenty years and you don’t see me complaining.’

Funny, that was exactly what Charlie saw. Nor was it an unfamiliar sight. The Snowman was in a foul mood at the moment. Charlie had got him some prices from the most economical sundial-maker she’d been able to find, an ex-stonemason based in Wiltshire, but even he had said the final price, for the sort of dial Proust was after, would be at least two thousand pounds. Superintendent Barrow had vetoed the plan. Funds were limited, and there were higher priorities. Like fixing the one-armed bandit machine.

‘Do you know what the cretin told me to do?’ Proust had ranted to Charlie. ‘He said the garden centre near where he lives sells sundials for much less than two grand. I’ve got his permission to buy one from there if I want to. Never mind that those ones are freestanding and our nick’s got no perishing garden! Never mind that they don’t even attempt to tell the time! Oh, did I forget to mention that crucial fact, Sergeant? Yes, that’s right: Barrow doesn’t see the difference between an ornamental, garden-centre dial that’s just for show and a real one made to keep solar time! The man’s a liability.’

Charlie heard Simon say, ‘Proust.’

She looked up. ‘What?’

‘I think what we’re doing’s unethical. Tossing Naomi Jenkins into Juliet Haworth’s cage, using her as bait. I’m going to talk to the Snowman about it.’

‘He approved it.’

‘He doesn’t know what’s being said. Both women are lying to us. We’re getting nowhere.’

‘Don’t you bloody dare, Simon!’ Threats wouldn’t work with him. He was a contrary bugger, prone to thinking he was the sole guardian of propriety and decency. Another thing to blame on his religious upbringing. Charlie softened her tone. ‘Look, the best chance we’ve got of working out what the fuck’s going on here is if we let those two keep going at each other and hope something comes out of it. Something already has: we know more about Robert Haworth’s background than we did yesterday.’

Seeing Simon’s sceptical expression, Charlie added, ‘All right, Juliet might be lying. Everything she says might be a lie, but I don’t think so. I think there is something she wants us to know, something she wants Naomi Jenkins to know. We’ve got to give it time to come out, Simon. And unless you’ve got a better plan, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t run snivelling to Proust and try to persuade him to fuck up mine.’

‘You think Naomi Jenkins is tougher than she is,’ said Simon in a level voice. He didn’t rise to the bait anymore, Charlie had noticed. ‘She could crack at any time, and when she does, you’ll feel shit about it. I don’t know what it is with you and her . . .’

‘Don’t be ridiculous . . .’

‘Okay, she’s intelligent, she’s not a scuzz like a lot of the people we deal with. But you’re treating her like she’s one of us, and she’s not. You’re expecting her to do too much, you’re telling her too much . . .’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘You’re telling her everything to arm her against Juliet because you’re sure Juliet’s the one who tried to kill Haworth, but what if she isn’t? She hasn’t confessed. Naomi Jenkins has lied to us from the get-go, and I say she’s still lying.’

‘She’s withholding something,’ Charlie admitted. She needed to get Naomi on her own. She was sure she’d be able to get the truth out of her if they were alone.

‘She knows something about whatever Juliet’s not telling us,’ said Simon. ‘And Juliet can see that, and doesn’t like it one bit. She wants to be the one with all the knowledge, releasing it piece by piece. She’s going to stop talking, I reckon. No more interviews. It’s the only way she can exercise her power.’

Charlie decided to change the subject. ‘How’s Alice?’ she said casually. The question she’d resolved never to ask. Damn. Too late now.

‘Alice Fancourt?’ Simon sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t thought about her for a while.

‘Do we know any others?’

‘I don’t know how she is. Why would I know?’

‘You said you were going to meet her.’

‘Oh, right. Well, I didn’t.’

‘You cancelled?’

Simon looked puzzled. ‘No. I never arranged to see her.’

‘But . . .’

‘All I said is, I might get in touch, see if she fancied meeting up. But I decided not to, in the end.’

Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh or throw cold tea in his face. Anger and relief struggled for dominance inside her, but relief was the weaker feeling and didn’t stand a chance. ‘You fucking arsehole, ’ she said.

‘Hey?’ Simon adopted his most innocent expression: the bewilderment of a man who has been randomly accosted by trouble he could not have foreseen. What made it even more bloody irritating was that it was genuine. About work, Simon could be arrogant and overbearing, but in any personal matter he was self-effacing. Dangerously humble, Charlie had often thought. His modesty made him assume that nothing he said or did was likely to have an impact on anyone.

‘You told me you were going to meet her,’ she said. ‘I thought it was all fixed up. You must have known I’d think that.’

Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to give that impression, if I did.’

Charlie didn’t want to talk about it any more. She’d shown that she cared. Again.

Four years ago, at Sellers’ fortieth birthday party, Simon had rejected Charlie in a particularly unforgettable way. Not before he’d raised her hopes, though. They’d found a quiet, dark bedroom and closed the door. Charlie was sitting astride Simon, and they were kissing. That they would end up having sex had seemed a foregone conclusion. Charlie’s clothes were in a pile on the floor, though Simon hadn’t removed any of his. She should have been suspicious then, but she wasn’t.

Without explanation or apology, Simon had changed his mind and left the room without a word. In his hurry, he’d not bothered to shut the door. Charlie had dressed quickly, but not before at least nine or ten people had seen her.

She was still waiting for something to happen to her that would neutralise that moment in her memory, make it cease to matter. Graham, perhaps. So much better for the ego than Simon and more accessible too. Perhaps that was the problem. Why was that invisible barrier so attractive?

‘Go and see how Gibbs is getting on,’ she said. It was strange to think that if she hadn’t got the wrong end of the stick about Alice, she would not have invented a fictional boyfriend called Graham. And if she hadn’t done that, she might not have been so determined to make something happen with Graham Angilley when she met him. On the other hand, she might have. Wasn’t she Tyrannosaurus Sex, man-eater and all-round freak?

Simon looked worried, as if he thought it might be unwise for him to get up and leave now, though it was clearly what he wanted to do. Charlie didn’t return his tentative smile. Why haven’t you asked me a single question about Graham, you bastard? Not one, since I first mentioned him.

Once Simon had gone, she pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag and dialled the number of Silver Brae Chalets, wishing she’d remembered to get Graham’s mobile number. She didn’t want to have to navigate her way through a stilted conversation with the dogsbody.

‘Hello, Silver Brae Luxury Chalets, Steph speaking, how may I help you?’