Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

A photograph of Naomi Jenkins filled the screen. She was smiling, sitting on a large black semicircular sundial, leaning against its silver cone-shaped shadow-caster, its gnomon. That word would take some getting used to, thought Charlie. Naomi’s auburn hair was tied back and she was wearing red cords and a faded blue sweatshirt.

‘She looks normal enough there,’ said Simon. ‘A happy, successful woman.’

‘It’s her website,’ said Charlie. ‘She’ll have designed it herself.’

‘No, look, it says “Summerhouse Web Design” at the bottom.’

Charlie tutted impatiently. ‘I don’t mean literally. I mean she’ll have supplied all the information and the photographs herself. Any free-lancer having a website designed to promote their business is going to think very carefully about what sort of image they want to project.’

‘Do you think she’s lying to us?’ asked Simon.

‘Not sure.’ Charlie chewed her thumbnail. ‘Not necessarily, but . . . I don’t know. I’m only guessing, but I doubt that mislaying her lover was the beginning of her problems. Anyway, find Haworth, check he’s okay, and that’ll be the end of that. Meanwhile, I’ll . . . go and lie on the beach in Andalucia.’ She grinned. It was over a year since she’d been able to have five consecutive days off. And now she was about to take a proper week’s holiday, like a normal person. Could it be true?

‘Here’s the Shadow-caster’s business card,’ she said. ‘I certainly won’t need to contact her on my holi-jollies. Do you want one for Silver Brae Luxury Chalets as well, by any chance? Ms Jenkins lied to me about that. When I said, “Silver Brae Luxury Chalets,” she looked like I’d hit her. I bet she and Haworth did go there.’ Charlie turned the card over. ‘I forgot to give it back to her. Hm. They do transfers from Edinburgh Airport. Home-cooked meals provided if you want them, spa facilities, all the beds super-king size . . . Maybe you and Alice could go.’ Damn . Why had she said that?

Simon ignored the comment. ‘What did you make of that window business?’ he asked. ‘Think she saw something?’

‘Oh, please! That was a load of utter shite. She was stressed and she lost it—simple as that.’

Simon nodded. ‘She said Haworth likes to be in control of everything, but she seemed like the control freak to me. Insisting on telling the story chronologically, ordering us to go to Haworth’s house.’ He picked up the photograph of Naomi with Robert Haworth and studied it. There was a Burger King sign in the background, above a row of cars. ‘Looks like it was taken outside the Traveltel,’ he said.

‘Scenic.’

‘It’s a bit sad, isn’t it? He’s never been to her house and they’ve been together a year.’

‘Their relationship’s the real mystery in all of this,’ said Charlie. ‘What’s wrong with him that she doesn’t want her best friend to meet him?’

‘Maybe the friend’s the one she’s ashamed of,’ Simon suggested.

‘What could an arty sundial-maker with a designer handbag and a skint lorry driver possibly have in common?’

‘Physical attraction?’ Simon looked as if he didn’t want to dwell on this for too long.

Charlie nearly said, ‘You mean sex?’ but she stopped herself in time. ‘He doesn’t look like a lorry driver, does he?’ She frowned. ‘How many lorry drivers do you know who wear collarless shirts and trendy square glasses?’

‘I don’t know any lorry drivers,’ said Simon rather glumly, as if it had just occurred to him that he might like to.

‘Well . . .’ Charlie slapped him on the back. ‘All that’s about to change. Send us a text once you’ve found him, won’t you? It’ll brighten up my holiday no end to find out he’s emigrated to Australia to avoid the Shadow-caster. On second thoughts, don’t. Last time I went on holiday Proust rang me at least once a day, the bastard. It can wait till I get back.’

Charlie slung her bag over her shoulder and started to gather her things together. Everything to do with work could wait for a week. What couldn’t wait was the explanation Olivia had demanded. Charlie was going straight from the police station to meet her sister at the airport, and she’d have to do better than she had on the phone. Why did she feel the irresistible urge to reveal all to Olivia the moment she fucked up? Until she’d confessed, she felt panicky and out of control; it had been that way ever since they were teenagers. At least she’d succeeded in shocking Olivia into silence for three or four seconds; that hadn’t happened before. ‘I’ve no idea why I did it,’ she’d said, which was true.

‘Well, you’ve got three hours to think about it and reach a plausible conclusion,’ Olivia had retorted once she’d rediscovered her voice. ‘I’ll ask you again at Heathrow.’

And whatever I say then to shut you up, I’ll still have no idea, thought Charlie.

3

Tuesday, April 4

THERE IS ONLY one person behind the bar at the Star Inn: a short, skinny man with a long face and a large nose. He whistles, polishing beer glasses with a frayed green towel. It is just after midday. Yvon and I are his first customers. He looks up and smiles at us. I notice that his teeth are long, like horses’ teeth, and there is a slight dip on either side of his head, above each ear, as if his face has been squeezed by a large pair of tweezers.

Do you think that’s a fair description? You never describe things. I don’t think you want to inflict the way you see the world on other people, so you stick to simple nouns: lorry, house, pub. No, that’s wrong. I have never heard you use the word ‘pub’. You say ‘local’, which I suppose is a sort of description.

I don’t know why I am so disappointed to find the Star empty apart from this peculiar-looking barman. It’s not as if I expected you to be here. If I had even the tiniest hope then I must have been deluding myself. If you were able to go out drinking, you’d be able to contact me. Yvon squeezes my arm, noticing my desolate expression.

At least I know I’m in the right place. As soon as I walked across the threshold, all my doubts vanished. This is where you mean when you talk about the Star. It doesn’t surprise me that you chose an out-of-the-way place, tucked into the valley, right on the river. It is in the centre of town, but you can’t see it from Spilling Main Street. You have to take the road between the picture-framer’s and the Centre for Alternative Medicine, and follow it all the way down past Blantyre Park.

The pub is one long room, with the bar at one end. There is a damp, yeasty smell and a haze of smoke in the air, trapped since last night.

The barman is still grinning. ‘Morning, ladies. Afternoon, rather. What can I get you?’ From this I guess that he is the sort of young man who is in the habit of speaking as an old man might. In a way, I am glad not to have a choice about who to talk to. Now I can concentrate on what I ought to say.

The walls are covered with framed pages of old newspapers: the Rawndesley Telegraph , the Rawndesley Evening Post . I glance at the one nearest to me. In one column is the story of an execution that took place in Spilling in 1903. There is a picture of a noose and, beside it, another of the unfortunate criminal. The second column has the headline ‘Silsford farmer wins prize for best pig’, and a sketch of the animal and its owner, both looking proud. The pig is called Snorter.

I blink away tears. Finally, I am seeing all the things you have seen, your world. Yesterday it was your house, today this pub. I feel as if I’m taking a guided tour of your life. I hoped it might bring me closer to you, but it has the opposite effect. It’s horrible. I feel as if I’m looking at your past, not your present, and certainly not anything I could ever share. It’s as if I’m trapped behind a glass screen or a cordon of red rope and I can’t reach you. I want to scream out your name.