Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘Why wouldn’t she tell me where she was going?’ asked Yvon Cotchin. ‘We’d sorted everything out, she wasn’t annoyed with me anymore, I know she wasn’t . . .’

‘It’s unlikely to be anything you did wrong,’ Simon told her. They’d been talking for less than three minutes, and he was already impatient with Cotchin’s hand-wringing and lip-biting. She seemed to care more about how her friend’s unexplained absence might reflect on her than about the risk of harm to Naomi.

Simon had just heard, second-hand, Naomi Jenkins’ theory that Robert Haworth had cooked the food that the audiences watching the staged rapes had eaten. It was possible, he supposed, and a good reason for Haworth to withhold from Jenkins the fact that he’d once been a chef.

What Simon couldn’t make sense of, no matter how hard he tried, was why Haworth should want to strike up relationships with both Sandy Freeguard and Naomi Jenkins, knowing his brother had raped them. He thought back to the two recorded interviews between Naomi and Juliet Haworth. He and Charlie had listened to the tapes again, only a few hours ago. He doesn’t see any of his family. Robert’s the official black sheep. But if his family comprised a serial rapist, a slag who sold sex to strangers on the phone, and a National Front-supporting racist thug . . .

Simon felt excitement stir inside him. If Robert Haworth was the black sheep of a rotten family, wouldn’t that make him, by any objective ethical assessment, a white sheep? The only good thing to come from a bad family?

Simon was desperate to talk to Charlie. Her scepticism was the acid test for all his theories. Without her, it was as if half his brain was missing. So he was probably wrong, but still . . . what if Robert Haworth had known what his brother Graham was doing to women and decided to seek at least some of those women out and try to make it up to them?

Why didn’t he just go to the police? Charlie would have said.

Because some people would never do that, no matter what. Shop a member of your own family to the law? No; too big a betrayal, too public.

The more Simon tried to squash the theory down, the more determined it seemed to sprout wings and take off. If Robert knew about the rapes and felt unable to report them to the police, he’d have felt all the more guilty. Wasn’t it possible that he made it his mission to try to compensate Graham’s victims in another way?

No, dickhead. Robert Haworth had raped Prue Kelvey. That was beyond question.

‘Naomi’s not thinking straight at the moment,’ Yvon Cotchin said tearfully. ‘She could do any crazy thing.’

Her voice returned Simon to the moment. ‘She left a note saying she’d be back later,’ he said. It was more than Charlie had done. ‘That’s a good sign. We’ll think again if she doesn’t turn up soon.’

‘This’ll sound mad, but . . . I think she might have gone to that village, where Robert grew up.’

‘Oxenhope?’

Yvon nodded. ‘She’d want to see it. Not for any real purpose, just because it’s associated with Robert. That’s how obsessed she is.’

‘Did Naomi know that Robert Haworth wasn’t the name he was born with?’ asked Simon.

‘What? No. Definitely not. What . . . what did he used to be called?’

Time for a change of subject. ‘Yvon, I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you about your work. Is that all right?’ He planned to ask them anyway, whatever she said.

‘My work? What about it? How’s that relevant to Naomi, or Robert?’

‘I can’t discuss that with you. It’s confidential. But take my word for it, your answers will be incredibly useful.’

‘All right,’ she said, after a slight pause.

‘You designed the website for Naomi Jenkins’ sundial-making business.’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Erm . . . I’m not sure.’ She fidgeted in her chair. ‘Oh! It was September 2001. I remember because I was working on it when I heard about the planes crashing into the World Trade Center. Awful day.’ She shuddered.

‘When was the website up and running?’ asked Simon.

‘October 2001. It didn’t take me long.’

‘You also designed a website for Silver Brae Chalets in Scotland.’

Yvon looked surprised. Her mouth twitched. Simon guessed she was fighting the urge to ask him again what all this was about. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Do you know Graham Angilley, the owner? Is that how you got the work?’

‘I’ve never met him. He’s a friend of my father’s. Is . . . Graham in some kind of trouble?’

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Simon, not caring if Yvon heard the venom in his voice. ‘When did you design his website? Do you remember?’ Was there a convenient terrorist atrocity that made it stick in your mind? ‘Before or after Naomi’s?’

‘Before,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Long before—1999, 2000. Something like that.’

Disappointment made Simon flinch. Bang went his theory that Graham Angilley had looked at Naomi Jenkins’ website to get an idea of the standard of Yvon Cotchin’s work. If Simon had been wrong about that, what else might he be wrong about?

‘Are you sure? It couldn’t have been the other way round, Naomi Jenkins first and then the chalets?’

‘No. I did Naomi’s long after Graham’s. I’ve got all my old work diaries at home—at Naomi’s house. I can show you the exact dates I worked on both, if you like.’

‘That’d be helpful,’ said Simon. ‘I’m also going to need a complete list of all the websites you’ve designed, since you started. Is that do-able?’

Yvon looked worried. ‘None of this has got anything to do with me,’ she protested.

‘We don’t think you’ve done anything wrong,’ said Simon. ‘But I need that list.’

‘Okay. I’ve got nothing to hide, it’s just . . .’

‘I know. Does the name Prue Kelvey mean anything to you?’

‘No. Who is she?’

‘Sandy Freeguard?’

‘No.’

She looked as if she was telling the truth.

‘Okay,’ said Simon. ‘I’m particularly interested in women with businesses, like Naomi Jenkins, who you’ve designed sites for. Any names you can think of offhand?’

‘Yeah, probably,’ said Yvon. ‘Mary Stackniewski. Donna Bailey.’

‘The artist?’

‘Yeah. I think those are the only ones you might have heard of. There was a woman who ran a dating agency, another one who made models—she was the daughter of my—’

‘Juliet Haworth?’ Simon cut her off, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up. Models? It had to be.

‘That’s Robert’s wife.’ Yvon looked at him as if he were insane. ‘Don’t be daft. I could never work for her. Naomi would string me up from the nearest lamp post and shoot me as a traitor—’

‘What about Heslehurst, Juliet Heslehurst?’ Simon cut her off. ‘Pottery models of houses?’

Yvon’s eyes were round with amazement. ‘Yes,’ she said faintly. ‘That’s the woman who made the models. Hers was the first site I ever did. Is there . . . She was also called Juliet. Is that . . . ?’

‘I’m asking the questions. How did you know Juliet Heslehurst?’

‘I didn’t, not really. Her mother, Joan, used to be my nanny when I was little. Before she had any kids of her own. Our families kept in touch. Joan mentioned to my mum that her daughter needed someone to do her a website . . .’

‘So Juliet Heslehurst’s website was your first? Before Graham Angilley’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you, by any chance, suggest to Mr Angilley that he look at Juliet Heslehurst’s site, to get an idea of the standard of your work?’

Yvon’s face had turned red. Sweat beaded her upper lip. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.