Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘If Graham cares about Robert, that gives you a reason to lie about Robert’s involvement in the rapes,’ said Charlie.

Steph frowned. ‘I’m not saying anything about Robert.’

‘He raped Prudence Kelvey,’ said Gibbs.

‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I don’t know that name. Look, I don’t remember most of the women’s names. I was busy in the kitchen most of the time.’

‘Prue Kelvey was raped in Robert’s lorry,’ Charlie told her.

‘Oh, right. In that case, I wouldn’t know. Once there were no meals involved, I kept out of it. Apart from when I was . . . being the victim.’

‘Why the change from chalet to lorry?’ asked Gibbs.

Steph examined her fingernails.

‘Well?’

She sighed, as if the questions were putting her out. ‘The chalet business started doing better and better. It got to the point where there were people around, guests, nearly all the time. Graham thought it was too risky—anyone might have seen or heard something. And the lorry was . . . mobile. It was more convenient. For me, especially. I was fed up of all the bloody cooking. I’ve got enough on my plate without that as well. The only downside is, we can’t charge as much now that we’re offering a package that doesn’t include dinner. But we still provide drinks.’ Steph’s voice was shrill, defensive. ‘Champagne—good-quality champagne. So it’s not as if we don’t offer them anything.’

Charlie decided she’d be quite happy if Steph Angilley were to die, suddenly, of an unforeseen but particularly painful heart attack. Gibbs looked as if he felt the same.

‘I hate Robert,’ Steph confided tearfully, as if she couldn’t keep it in any longer. ‘Changing his name like that—the bastard. He only did that to hurt Graham, and it worked. Graham was devastated. He’s in a terrible state at the moment, ever since you told him Robert was in hospital.’

She spat the words at Charlie, who tried not to flinch as she remembered talking to Simon on her mobile in front of Graham. ‘So, what’s happened to this Haworth chap?’ Graham had asked casually afterwards. And Charlie had told him about Robert, that he was unlikely to live. Graham had looked upset; Charlie remembered thinking it was sweet of him to be concerned.

‘Graham really cares about family, and his are all shit,’ Steph went on. ‘Even his little brother turned out to be a traitor. Who does Robert think he is? He was the one in the wrong, not Graham. It’s so unfair! Everyone knows you don’t mix business with pleasure, and you certainly don’t try to ruin your own brother’s business. He did it again as well.’

‘What?’

‘That Naomi woman you were with before. Robert must have been shagging her, because she tried to book a chalet for the two of them. She pretended she was called Haworth too, but I knew it was her as soon as I heard the name Naomi. Graham was spitting feathers. “Robert’s done it again,” he said.’

Charlie tried to clear her mind. There was nothing like talking to a very stupid person for bringing on a sort of mental claustrophobia. ‘Graham and Robert aren’t speaking. Yet you use his lorry for your stag nights.’

‘Yeah,’ said Steph. ‘Graham had his own key cut.’

‘You mean to say Robert doesn’t know you use the lorry for your stag dos?’ Gibbs’ voice was incredulous. ‘He must notice it’s missing some nights. Does Graham pretend he uses the lorry for some other purpose?’

Charlie didn’t like the slant of Gibbs’ questions. Why was he trying to find a way for Robert Haworth not to be guilty of anything? They knew Haworth had raped Prue Kelvey—there was solid, incontrovertible evidence to prove it.

Steph bit her lip, looking wary.

Gibbs tried again. ‘If Robert wants nothing to do with Graham, why let him use the lorry? For money? Does Graham hire it from him?’

‘I’m not saying anything about Robert, all right?’ Steph folded her arms. ‘As it is, Graham’s going to bloody kill me. If I talk about Robert, he really will murder me. He’s very protective of his little brother.’

28

Sunday, April 9

IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT by the time I get to my house. I hitched a lift with a chatty young lorry driver called Terry, and made it back safely. I wasn’t nervous about being in a stranger’s car. All the worst things that might happen to me already have. I feel immune to danger.

Yvon’s car isn’t here. She must have gone back to Cambridge, to Ben’s. I knew she would, when I left home yesterday without telling her where I was going. Yvon is one of those people who can’t be alone. She needs a strong presence in her life, someone to rely on, and my recent behaviour has been too unpredictable. She imagines life with Ben Cotchin will be safer.

The cliché ‘Love is blind’ should be replaced with a more accurate one: ‘Love is unconscious.’ Like you, Robert. If you’ll pardon the sick joke. Yvon sees everything Ben does, but can’t draw the right conclusions. It’s her mind that’s not working properly, not her eyes.

I go straight to my workshop, unlock the door and pick up the largest of my dummy mallets, weighing it in my palm. I stroke its gold head with my fingers. I’ve always found dummy mallets satisfying to hold; I like the absence of straight lines. They’re the same shape as the pestles some people use for grinding herbs into pastes, except they’re made of wood and bronze. With this one in my hand, I could do serious damage, which is what I want to do.

I pick up a length of rope from the floor, under my work table, then some more. I have no idea how much is enough. I’m used to tying up wrapped sundials, not men. In the end, I decide to take all the rope I’ve got, and a large pair of scissors. I lock up the workshop, go back to my car and drive to Charlie’s house.

No one could blame me for what I’m about to do. I’m performing a service, a necessary one. There’s no alternative. Graham Angilley attacked us all too long ago—Juliet, me, Sandy Freeguard. Simon Waterhouse told me on Wednesday that the conviction rate for years-old rapes is low, and Charlie said there’s no DNA evidence from Sandy Freeguard’s attack. Only Prue Kelvey’s, and Angilley didn’t touch her. It would be his word against mine.

Charlie’s house is dark, as it was when Terry the lorry driver—your colleague, as I like to think of him—dropped me off outside it forty-five minutes ago, to collect my car. I wasn’t prepared to go inside then, unarmed.

The building looks empty, radiates cold stillness. If your brother Graham is inside, he must be asleep. I take Charlie’s keys and, as quietly as I can, try them in the lock one by one. The third one works. I turn it very slowly, then, inch by inch, I push open the front door.

Holding the dummy mallet in my hand, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once they have, I begin to climb the stairs. One step creaks slightly, but not enough to wake someone who’s sleeping, oblivious. On the upstairs landing, there are three doors. I assume they lead to two bedrooms and a bathroom. I tiptoe into the bedrooms, one by one. Nobody. I check the bathroom: also empty.

I’m not as frightened as I probably should be. I’ve slipped back into I-can-do-anything mode. Last time I felt like this, I went to the police station and told a detective that you’d raped me. Thank God I did. It’s thanks to me that Juliet’s attempt to kill you failed.

I go back downstairs, holding the mallet level with my head in case I need to use it suddenly. I’ve got the rope over my arm and the strap of my bag round my neck. I open the only door in the hall and find a long, thin lounge with open glass doors in the middle, off which is a small, messy kitchen, with lots of washing-up heaped on one side of the sink.