Here The Truth Lies Read online

“Angela Smith.”

  “That overambitious slut. She’d rat on her own mother if she thought there was enough in it to advance her precious career.”

  “You’ve heard about her?”

  “The whole building knows about her. I’d say her days as a snitch might be about to come to an end.”

  “I wish.”

  “Well, how can you run tales to the boss when everyone knows you’re at it? No one’s going to tell you a thing.”

  I’m more pleased than ever that I decided to wait out the rush hour.

  “So, how to repair things with McLeish?”

  “I just need a couple of breaks.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like convincing Albert Denham or Margaret Hyslop to give me an interview.”

  Margo Smith gives an encouraging wink. “Now for a price, I might be able to do something about that.”

  “What kind of price.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Say you get the next round.”

  I smile. “OK. So, what’s the deal?”

  “Just that Margaret Hyslop and me went to the same, very expensive school. You could say we were close friends there. Which means she still owes me, big time.”

  “So will you ask her?”

  “Better than that. I’ll do it now.”

  Margo Smith walks over to a quieter spot, away from the drinking crowd, more towards the Market. She makes a short phone call and comes back.

  “Tomorrow at eleven in Winchester Place. OK?”

  I give Margot a hug. “You’re a miracle worker!”

  “Anything to get McLeish off your back.” She pauses. “Just why does he have it in for you, anyway?”

  I tell Margot about Brian Cooper. How I feel drawn to investigate. How I’m certain there’s been a miscarriage of justice. Margot listens and passes no judgment. I feel a small part of the load I’ve placed upon myself lifting, just by being able to talk to someone sympathetic about the Cooper story. Level-headed Margot doesn’t question what I’m doing. This is reassurance that I’m not as far out on a limb as I fear in my darkest moments.

  During the telling, the good-looking Geordie returns with drinks. My confidence is further buoyed by my first scotch. It goes down much too easily and demands another.

  I remember my promise to Margot. I push through the crowd and make my way inside the pub to go and buy the next round. The bar area is as busy as ever, six deep. I’ll have to be patient and wait.

  As I stand at the bar, I have the feeling that someone is watching me. I turn my head as if to look down to retrieve something from my jacket pocket but use this as an opportunity to scan those standing to the right of me.

  It’s him. The tall man in the black coat. I’m sure of it.

  It unsettles me. What’s he doing here? Coincidence? Or has he followed me here as I left the office? Cunning to have positioned himself here, near the bar where he can observe me without being seen. He could never have predicted I would venture inside.

  When my turn comes, I buy drinks for Margot, the Geordie and myself and push my way back outside. I try to put thoughts of the tall man out of her mind.

  It’s no surprise that the second scotch goes down as easily as the first. Margot is good company. The Geordie is opening up to her. His name is Dan and he works as the manager of a nearby pizza restaurant. He’s just finished a shift in which they served several hundred kids on school trips and survived. He and Margot are getting along fine. I decide it’s time to make for the station. I need a clear head for the phone call with Brain Cooper later this evening.

  I make a point of thanking Margot again for arranging the meeting with Margaret Hyslop. “You’re a real life saver.”

  The walk back up London Bridge Street against the Shard-induced gale blowing down it is softened by the satisfying glow of the whiskey. I reach London Bridge Station in record time and step onto the escalator that leads down to the Underground. A busker on the stairway below plays passable classical guitar amplified enough to be heard over the distant clattering of arriving and departing trains.

  Two minutes. Not long to wait for my train.

  I look around. The platform is all but empty, the rush hour now over.

  I pace up and down, trying to settle my mind on what I will say to Brian Cooper in my call. But the indistinct sense of impending danger I’ve carried with me since leaving the pub won’t relent. I look up and down the platform time and time again as I pace. A middle aged couple. A small group of French tourists. No one to concern me here.

  When the train thunders in, I climb aboard and take a seat in the first empty carriage. The doors remain open for what seems too long a time.

  Someone has jumped on just before the doors are about to close. They’re sitting behind me, out of sight unless I make a point of turning my head and looking.

  It’s him.

  He must be watching me after all, though here he is, pretending to be reading the evening newspaper.

  There’s no help from the scotch now. I’m on my own.

  What to do?

  I could go up to him and confront him. Ask why he’s following me.

  But that would either make me look foolish if he denied everything or place me in danger if he took that as a signal to turn against me.

  As we come to a stop at the next station and the doors open, I wait as long as I can before getting up and jumping down onto the platform, just before the doors close again.

  If the tall man intended to continue following, he’s out of luck. The doors are closed. The train is on its way.

  Three minutes until the next train.

  I congratulate myself on giving my follower the slip.

  CHAPTER 8

  I make it home in good time to take the call from Brian Cooper.

  All the way, I’m worried that the tall man might get off the train at one of the stations further down the line, wait there and re-board my carriage when it arrives. But as each station stop passes and there is no sign of him, my sense of fear subsides and I sink back into the warm, welcoming arms of my whisky-aided world.

  When eight-thirty comes around and there’s nothing from Cooper, I begin to think he must have second thoughts about calling. After all, I hadn’t been able to offer much hope of getting his case reviewed the last time we spoke, which is over two weeks ago.

  When the phone rings, I half expect it to be a cold call, but it’s Cooper’s voice at the end of the line.

  He doesn’t waste time with any formalities. “Look, I don’t have long. I’m on three calls only a week and this is one of them. We have fifteen minutes.”

  I try to put him at ease. “I’m glad you got through, I thought you might have problems accessing the phone.”

  “They do you no favors in here. But, sweetheart, that’s something I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “I have an important question, Brian. I want you to think very carefully before you reply. The way you answer may well determine if I can go on helping you or not.”

  “You’re trying to pull a number on me?”

  “No, of course not. But you have to understand that there are some things we have to get straight before I can offer any further help.”

  “I get it, sweetheart. What is it?”

  “You are on the level with me, aren’t you?”

  “Is that it? If you mean, did I do it, you know what the answer is. I didn’t do it. I was nowhere near the house.”

  “So where were you?”

  “Like I told you last time, I was out and about, working my patch.”

  “Pushing drugs? With Alison?”

  “What else. That’s what we did.”

  I take a deep breath. “I need to understand why Alison placed you at that house in Morden. You and he were mates, working together.”

  “He was never a mate of mine.”

  “But you worked together.”

  “Call it a marriage of convenience. You don’t have to like someone to work with them.”


  “You’re saying you didn’t get on with him.”

  “No, I’m saying that’s how the world is, sweetheart.”

  I hate how Cooper calls me sweetheart in such a dismissive way. No doubt this is his attitude to most women, but I let it pass.

  “You’ve got to help me here, Brian. Did Alison have any reason to want to set you up for the murder by testifying that you and he were at the house in Morden?”

  “He may have had his reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be finding out?”

  “You need to see how damaging that was to your case. In coming forward Alison was putting himself at great risk, admitting to drug dealing along with you and placing himself in a position where he could have been accused of being an accomplice to murder. That gave his testimony tremendous weight with the court. Why would he risk all that if he didn’t feel compelled to tell the truth about the killings?”

  Cooper falls silent for a worrying length of time, as if he’s thinking too much about what he should say next. I’m left with the feeling that he knows the importance of the question and that the way he answers will have a major effect on whether I’ll continue to support him. A pause that makes me uncertain that he’s not seeking to find the answer that will manipulate me the most. And when he does reply, what he has to say doesn’t calm those fears.

  “Look, Alison was a bad man. There are a lot of bad men like him. They do terrible things. How do I know why he turned me in? All I can tell you is, I wasn’t there. I didn’t kill that girl or her father.”

  I take another a deep breath. “Look, Brian. I need to say this to you again to make sure I understand. You could win parole by admitting that you did the killings. If you showed remorse, told them how sorry you were, you’d be more or less certain to be listened to. They could conclude that you’re no longer a danger. A year in a low security prison or so and you could be out.”

  He interrupts with an undisguised note of aggression in his voice. “And admit to something I didn’t do? Spend the rest of my life being known as a child killer? There’s no way I would ever do that, sweetheart. I thought you knew I was never going to do that.”

  “Which means there’s something you need to understand. If I continue the investigation and I turn up evidence that places you at the scene of the murders, I’ll be duty bound to reveal it. That would weigh heavily against any chance you might have of an appeal.” I pause again. “So, tell me one more time. Were you ever at the house in Morden? Yes or no?”

  “It’s like I told you. I didn’t do it. Is that clear enough for you, sweetheart? And if I didn’t do it, how could I have been anywhere near that house? Answer me that?”

  The time is up. The line goes dead.

  I’m less convinced by Cooper than before the call. He could be using me, regarding me as a soft touch. Yet I know that whatever force is drawing me to the story hasn’t changed, no matter how unconvincing Cooper is. And once again he’s refused to admit to the crime, even though that could have bought him his freedom.

  It’s that, more than anything else, that stays with me.

  CHAPTER 9

  That night I stay up late. The alcohol has worn off and hasn’t left me feeling sleepy. I don’t want to admit I’m scared to go to bed. Instead, I convince myself that the midnight news is interesting enough to merit just another hour. But scared I am.

  When I open the door to the bedroom, I half expect that Jenny will be there, waiting for me. But the room is as it has always been. Cold and uninviting.

  I climb in bed, turn off the light and close my eyes. It’s foolish to think the appearance of the girl is anything more than a one-off event, an inexplicable departure from reality that could happen to anyone. I can’t understand why this has come to dominate my thoughts.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness. Those splinters of light from the street outside appear and, as on every night, I’ll have to get out of bed and arrange the curtains so every last fragment of light is excluded.

  As I return from the window, there is Jenny, sitting down in the corner of the room, not looking my way, not caring if I’m there or not.

  I should be frightened but, in a way I don’t expect nor understand, the sight of the troubled little girl fills me with an expectant calmness. I go over and sit beside her. “Jenny. I’m glad you came back. I know you’re in trouble. I want to help.”

  The girl turns. There are tears in her eyes, tears that run down her cheeks and soak her nightdress.

  “Why so sad, Jenny?”

  The girl’s lips are moving but no sound can be heard.

  What is she saying? What is she trying to tell me? These are my only thoughts.

  “What have they done to you? Who has done this thing to you?”

  The girl looks up, a pleading look in her eyes that says: I know you can help.

  Instinct takes over. I want to cradle Jenny in my arms, soothe away her pain.

  Jenny looks back through tearful eyes and, this time, as her lips move I can’t mistake the words.

  I know who you are. You’re not Emma.

  I draw back in shock. I’m so frightened my voice almost deserts me. The words come as nothing more than a whisper. “Tell me what you mean. You can trust me. I promise you can trust me.”

  I reach out to embrace her and in that moment, Jenny is gone.

  “Come back. I didn’t mean to harm you.”

  But the absence is complete. The room remains as it has always been.

  I lie on the bed and begin sobbing.

  Jenny is a perfect little girl. Just the girl I would want as a daughter if things had worked out with Mark.

  She’s so troubled and I can do nothing about it. And now I need to understand what Jenny has said.

  I know who you are. You’re not Emma.

  The words echo in my mind and take away any possibility of sleep.

  DAY 2

  CHAPTER 10

  Next morning, I take a different route to work. I use the London Bridge station exit that leads right onto Borough High Street to avoid Southwark Cathedral and walk instead along Southwark Street, passing the Menier Chocolate Factory before cutting back towards the river and the Herald offices at Bankside.

  All the time I keep looking over my shoulder to see if the man in the black coat is following. But this morning, either he’s much better at concealing himself or he hasn’t appeared.

  The sleep situation is worse. I can’t stop thinking about Jenny and what she said. This continues now as I pick my way along Sumner Street en route to the office. Why did Jenny choose those words?

  I don’t know when, or if, I’ll see Jenny again. But I resolve not to be frightened of her next time. There will be a next time, I’m sure. The girl needs help. She’s come to me for a reason. There’s a connection, without a doubt, no matter how illogical this sounds.

  But what did she mean by saying I’m not Emma? I bury the thought.

  Entering the Herald building and heading for the office involves the conscious effort to focus on the realities of the day, the work needed to earn my keep. I tell myself I can do this, despite the lack of sleep. McLeish will get his story.

  The morning briefing goes without incident. McLeish rails at us all about keeping the ship afloat and doing more with less. He doesn’t single me out and I return to my workspace thankful for that.

  Time slows in the wait for the meeting with Margaret Hyslop. I keep herself busy by redoubling my efforts to contact Alfred Denham, but with no success. I make sure Angela Smith has every chance of noticing that I’m working on the Stanley story, as MacLeish demands.

  By eleven o’clock, I’m ready and waiting in the coffee bar in Winchester Place when Margaret Hyslop walks in.

  She’s a tall, domineering woman who wears expensive designer clothes as a way of telling the world she shouldn’t be trifled with.

  She’s not one for formalities. “You want dirt on Adam Stanley?
You won’t find many with a good word to say about him. And you have my express permission to count me amongst them. There’s no excusing what he did to me and my family.”

  Does she know about the bribe? The money in the envelope? That’s all I want to know. I need to hear it from this woman and be careful about planting the idea in her mind. “I understand Stanley has been implicated in questionable business practices.”

  Margaret Hyslop opens her mouth in a toothy smile. “I can believe anything of that man. But if you’re asking if I have inside details of the kind of dirty deals he must get up to, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.” She pauses. “You see, I’m not really part of that world.”

  There’s something difficult to believe in what she’s saying, as if this is a too well practiced denial. I press on. “But you may have heard a few whispers.”

  A sneer that’s on the point of turning into a snarl replaces the toothy grin. “Listen, Miss Chamberlain, I thought we were here to talk about what happened to Malcolm and me and that, finally, someone in the responsible press was interested in justice for him. That’s what Margot Smith told me. But you’re interested in something else completely, aren’t you?”

  Margaret and Malcolm Hyslop were caught with their hands in the till, fair and square. But a woman like Margaret Hyslop would never accept that. The world was supposed to be always lenient to her and her kind, as if the accident of her birth were an entitlement to unending success. Their indiscretion would never have been questioned in an earlier age when class and the quality of people still counted.

  I search for the right words to bring her back to the subject in hand. “I understand, Mrs Hyslop, what you and your family must be going through. And I wish I could help. But I can’t alter what’s happened. What can change is what people get to hear about Stanley and the kind of man he is.”

  “You’re suggesting I might act out of revenge?”

  I nod. “I would never suggest such a thing.”

  Hyslop pauses for longer than expected, as if she’s considering her options. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper. “OK. I might be able to tell you something.”