The Convenience of Lies (22 page)

Thirty-Five

That afternoon - and against medical advice - Lexie insisted on being discharged from
hospital.
A young junior doctor from Australia, sun-tanned and lifeguard fit, tried to talk her round.

‘Lexie,
as ideas go, this one hasn’t got a pulse.’

There
was a time was when she wouldn’t have had such a man just sitting on her bed.

‘If
you leave us too soon, you’ll be running a serious risk of possible complications.’

‘If
I don’t, I’ll be running a serious risk of going nuts,’ Lexie said.

‘You’re
suffering from a touch of post-operative depression which means you shouldn’t rush to make any decision you might regret later.’

‘Thanks
but I can’t take the deathly atmosphere in this place anymore.’

Hester
arrived with Ruby soon after. The child seemed even more withdrawn. She crouched on the floor staring into the middle distance as if she were somewhere else and completely alone. She was still wetting the bed at Garth, too. Hester was hardly her usual tranquil self, either. It wasn’t difficult to figure out who was to blame for almost everything.

‘McCall
can’t be up to any good,’ Hester said. ‘The police are after him and some guy who came to the house says he’s involved with some assassin. Jeez, but I’m at my wit’s end with worry about what the future holds for any of us.’

Lexie
saw her looking at Ruby as she said this. If she had any doubt about discharging herself, they disappeared then. She signed a form releasing the health service from any liability before a nurse pushed her to Hester’s van in a hospital wheelchair.

Ruby
remained locked in her private space on the drive back. Lexie tried to ignore her own discomfort and talk to her instead. She barely got a word of reply. They might have been strangers - but what else was Ruby but a child Lexie didn’t really know?

*

Hester’s chicken soup could heal the sick and comfort the weary. Lexie was both and sat with a bowl of it on her lap by the Aga in the comfort and warmth of Garth Hall’s old kitchen.

Hanging
from nails in the beams above were bundles of herbs from Hester’s physic garden - coriander, dill, thyme, oregano - drying out and giving off a faint aroma of lemons and dried earth.

Ruby
had been drawing at the kitchen table but was now in bed. Before going, she’d fixed Lexie with her quizzical stare and said hospital had made her look different.

‘It’s
like I told you, sweetie, I’ve had an operation,’ Lexie said. ‘Part of my tummy has been taken away so it’ll be a little while before I can feel right again.’

‘Babies
come out of your tummy so that means you won’t have any.’

‘That’s
right, but I’ve still got you, haven’t I?’

Ruby
didn’t react to what had just been said. She simply gave Lexie the pencil drawing she’d just finished.

This
was no mask of youth flattery but Ruby’s unforgiving take on Lexie as she’d become - face much thinner, lines more numerous, eyes darker-ringed, her hair lacking all bounce.

‘You’re
so clever and artistic,’ Lexie said. ‘I’ll get this framed when I’m better.’

‘You
look very old when you don’t paint your face.’

Hester
was accustomed to Ruby’s disregard for the sensitivities of others. But in Lexie’s fragile state, it could hurt. Yet that wasn’t all that was painful. She feared McCall’s continued absence seemed like a callous lack of concern for his girlfriend.

A
call Hester had made to his mobile from the phone box before supper had brought no reply. She’d wanted to tell him Lexie was home and ask again when he might be joining them.

‘He’s
been away for five days now and I’m dreading what we’ll hear next.’

‘Something’s
wrong, it has to be,’ Lexie said. ‘If it wasn’t, I’m sure he’d have written to us or found some other way of getting in touch.’

‘You’ve
changed your tune. You were calling him a son of a bitch a few days ago.’

‘I’ve
had time to think since.’

‘So
have I and McCall’s hardly behaving like a New Man, is he?’

‘He’ll
never be that,’ Lexie said. ‘He’s more of a reconditioned sort of guy, one with several careless owners… like me, for instance.’

As
an admission of responsibility for anything, still less for screwing up McCall’s early life, this was a first for Lexie. But Hester was too tense to notice.

‘All
I know is I’m picking up a really threatening vibe around here which I’ve never experienced before in my time at Garth.’

Lexie
could do without any New Age flim flam. She was already too uncomfortably close to the other side as it was.

‘I’m
truly sorry the pressure’s all been on you but we’ve got to decide which is safer for us all - to stay here or go away for a time.’

‘What
do you mean? Go where?’

‘I’m
thinking of moving to Norfolk.’

‘That’s
the other side of England.’

‘I
know but my ex-husband has just bought the cottage over there where we all spent happy times years ago. He told me on the phone the other night and now he’s saying I should go there to convalesce. But I’d need you and Ruby to come with me.’

‘That’d
mean uprooting her again.’

‘So
you’d rather have her freaking out over some man following her around here and thinking she’s going to be kidnapped again?’

‘’Course
not, but what about all the responsibilities I have as housekeeper at Garth?’

‘You
mean where you’re now scared to death every time there’s a knock at the door or the phone rings?’

Hester
considered the options. She’d no wish to admit her Oregon Trail spirit was failing her. Threats - implied or imagined - had wormed their way into her mind. What before had been the endearing creaks of Garth Hall’s ancient oak frame or its shifting floorboards now assumed the menace of an intruder’s footfall.

McCall’s
career always required he head towards trouble. This time, it’d come looking for him. His house was no longer a refuge for Hester. She didn’t feel safe being there alone with Ruby any more.

‘OK,
let’s go to Norfolk… if you’re sure you can cope with all the travelling.’

‘I
can and you’ll love it,’ Lexie said. ‘It’ll be wild and stormy and we can have long walks along the beach and be miles away from everything that’s worrying you.’

They
were both tired and it was late. It was an effort for Lexie to climb the stairs. She paused outside the room Hester shared with Ruby.

‘I’d
like to ask a favour,’ Lexie said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, but would you mind if I slept with you in your bed?’

‘Would
I mind? No, if that’s what you’d like to do.’

‘It’s
because I just feel… I feel like I’ve never been so alone in all my born days.’

So
they lay together in Hester’s big brass and iron bed. Lexie wanted to be held, needed the warmth of another human being, someone who would stroke her hair and kiss away the tears which came again like those of a child frightened in the night.

Thirty-Six

Benwick snored from the top bunk in the flat where he and McCall were now holed up. If the sin starts with the thought not the deed, Benwick must have done a deal of thinking of late. No one should lay money on him ever getting into heaven.

Something
else was clear to McCall. Whatever Benwick’s game, he wasn’t acting alone. His fallback arrangements to out-run those who would catch and kill him required not just savvy trade craft but a covert support network. So why put its security at risk by letting a hack in on the secret?

Young
Ronnie Stansfield had part of the answer. He’d seen an engine on the weapons factory railway hit someone - the one who couldn’t run away.

This
was Benwick’s female accomplice, the mysterious Mrs Boland. Whatever they’d been trying to pull off went disastrously wrong. Benwick, resourceful as ever, had a Plan B. But it needed two people to carry it out - and he was crocked with a sprained ankle. And all the while, those he feared most were closing in. Then McCall arrived, a useful idiot willing to play get-away driver in exchange for bits of background on Ruby’s case.

From
the law’s perspective, McCall was guilty of assisting a fugitive to endanger life and firebomb two buildings. He could still quit before the crap closed over his head. If he did, he’d have a chance to chase up Benwick’s leads about the paedophile politicians and the sabotaged police investigation.

The
newspapers would devour that, even if it gave every libel lawyer in Fleet Street the vapours. And if McCall got arrested, he’d get the sort of heroic publicity hacks crave, maybe a book or even a Panorama special.

Against
this, he hadn’t anything like the full story yet, not according to Benwick. But underlying all, McCall was no less addicted to risk-taking than him. He was strapped in on the scariest ride of his life and nothing could tempt him to jump off yet.

For
the moment, he’d too much brain-whizz to rest. He made himself tea in the flat’s small kitchenette then brought his notes up to date.

M/bike from big bang through birch woods. Side roads only to Roundhay, Leeds. Arrived red brick semi, early hours. House number 33, street name not seen. M/bike hidden under tarp in garage.

Benwick known to male occupier, me not introduced. They spoke only in Russian. Man looked fit, sixties, balding, lean, five feet ten, wary eyes. Dished up salt beef, dark brown bread, vodka.

Kitchen like a landfill, no female? Slept in easy chairs, untidy front room, woke late afternoon. Washed at kitchen sink, had coffee, biscuits.

Man came back with two sets workmen’s outfits, second hand donkey jackets, jeans, caps, industrial rubber gloves, boots. Our clothes left behind. Man put back seats down in Volvo estate, silver, ‘E’ reg. We lay under blankets. Drove east about ninety minutes. Arrived Barton, little town on Humber estuary, in darkness.

Man parked near pub, White Swan, went off, returned with small bag of groceries and keys to flat over empty shop in Fleetgate then left. What the hell next? Port of Hull just across river. Russian timber ships dock there.

Is Benwick going to defect on one? If so, why do I need to be dressed like a docker, as well as him?

*

Dawn wouldn’t be long coming, presaged by a late autumn mist from the North Sea, unfurling like a white silk scarf over the tiled roofs of Barton’s quiet streets. Curtains were still drawn and cats kept watch from the walls of gardens where they weren’t welcome. Some shops had been boarded up, others appeared shabby and in need of paint and custom.

It
looked like a place having a lean time, a place probably best seen in a rear view mirror on the way to somewhere else.

Standing
at the window of the meanly furnished room, McCall was acutely aware of the drama taking uncertain form around him. Across the street, those soon to wake into that miserable morning could eventually read about them in their papers, the strangers who stole in during the night to hide where nothing exciting ever happened.

McCall
heard the loo flush then Benwick refilling the kettle at the kitchen sink. He joined him. Benwick asked why he couldn’t sleep.

‘Not
knowing what the bloody hell’s happening could be something to do with it.’

‘Soon,
McCall, soon. What would you like for breakfast?’

‘Smoked
salmon, scrambled eggs, lightly done toast and my grapes peeled.’

‘That’ll
be bread and jam for two, then. You make the tea and I’ll do the rest then we should talk.’

*

About one hundred miles south, the same North Sea waves humped and broke on the beach by Staithe End. The fog which came with them slowly evaporated leaving a nacreous sheen across the watery sweep of sand beyond the dunes.

Hester
had been looking out of a window, too. How strange, how different it seemed to be staying in such a doll’s house of a cottage. Its entire footprint would fit in the panelled drawing room at Garth Hall with space to spare.

But
immediately Hester stepped inside, she’d heard its voices - the words of the long dead, lingering where they’d been uttered and audible only to those wise enough to listen. Yet amid these murmurs was a whisper from deep within her own self, the idea that now was the right time to leave the hills and find the sea.

She
felt easier in her mind at Staithe End, sensed no shadows darkening its whitened walls and rough-sawn beams as they had at Garth.

Those
who’d once dwelt here were humbler, too - land workers, fishermen, families far removed from the intrigues of their day. They’d lived by toil and sweat, weathered storms and been as content as ever those hard times allowed such people to be.

Lexie
was still resting in bed. The journey from the Welsh Marches had been more arduous than she’d predicted. But nearing Staithe End and the sound of the sea, her face eased with relief and happiness as if she had truly come home.

For
Ruby, what was supposed to be a holiday meant only disruption to the ordered routines she imposed on her life. She retreated further from the grown-ups, sullen and refusing to eat. But she’d brought her pads and pencils and Hester felt sure she could talk her round in a day or two.

It
still worried her that Ruby displayed no concern for the pain Lexie was in. It wasn’t clear if this lack of empathy was part of Ruby’s psychological condition or simply revealed a dislike of her aunt.

Hester
checked the weather again. Norfolk was all sky and luffing clouds. Rain might yet pluck at the waves and empty the beach of its walkers. But when Hester took up her breakfast, that’s exactly how Lexie said she’d love it to be.

‘I
want to go out in a storm and gather armfuls of driftwood,’ she said. ‘Then we can carry it back and sit and watch it burn in the hearth.’

*

McCall was tetchy from lack of sleep, a workhouse breakfast and the growing certainty of spending time in those parts of a police station where the windows didn’t open. Benwick must soon deliver on his promise to make this coming unpleasantness worthwhile.

‘When
Ruby first went missing, why did you suspect her mother?’

‘Because
I knew Etta was involved in a very black economy.’

‘You
mean she was a hooker?’

Benwick
shook his head.

‘Not
just that though I’m sure she was at that, too. No, unbelievable as it sounds, some of the kids being abused by the paedophile ring I was scoping had been rented out by their mothers to be filmed or photographed by the half hour.’

‘You’re
saying Etta was doing this?’

‘Holding
picture sessions in her flat, yes. Ruby Ross was one of the kids’ names the rent boy picked up while flying the flag for his union, so to speak.’

‘What
could possibly make any woman do that?’

‘Money,
great wads of it,’ Benwick said. ‘There’s an international trade in such images and if a mother is desperate enough for whatever reason, she’ll be blind to the harm being done.’

‘But
you only had the rent boy telling you this?’

‘Yep,
in his statement to the dirty tricks guy.’

‘His
word alone couldn’t be trusted, could it? You’d need independent corroboration.’

Benwick
agreed. But when a child called Ruby Ross went missing, Benwick called in a favour and was transferred back to CID to take over the investigation.

‘I
went to Etta’s flat and showed her the surveillance pictures of the men who’d figured in Operation Kid Glove. She’d let at least one of these perverts photograph her own child for money. She never broke down completely but I knew damn well she was covering up something.’

‘Like
her killing Ruby, you mean?’

‘Think
about it, McCall. Here’s a little girl who doesn’t know how to tell lies, not even social ones. At some point, she’ll let the cat out of the bag to a teacher or a doctor then Etta loses her daughter, her home, liberty, everything.’

‘But
a motive for murder turned out to be a motive for suicide.’

‘I
know, that was never in my script but it pointed to a wider conspiracy.’

McCall
reached into his rucksack. He took out some of Ruby’s artwork and put the drawing of the birthmark man on the table between them.

‘Did
that conspiracy involve this particular individual?’

‘Good
God, Ray Gillespie. Who drew this?’

‘Ruby,
she’s an amazingly talented kid. She’s drawn quite a few faces of the men who might’ve abused her but this one really scares her. She thinks he follows her.’

‘Gillespie
was the one who took pictures of Ruby,’ Benwick said. ‘Etta was terrified when I showed her the sneaky photographs of him.’

‘Was
it Gillespie who kidnapped Ruby?’

‘I’d
be hard pushed to prove it in court but as night follows day, yes… he did it.’

‘But
why run such a huge risk if Etta was already letting pictures be taken of Ruby?’

‘Try
to understand how quickly paedophiles get desensitised. They always need bigger and better kicks, more depravity to meet their deviant sexual demands so abusing a kid with a handicap would be a new high. Gillespie knew about Ruby’s condition and I think he wanted to take it a stage further and give Inglis the heightened thrill of actually sexually assaulting a child like her. But Etta refused to play along this time so he kidnapped her.’

This
confirmed what McCall already believed - Gillespie had to be Mr Ginger, the threat Etta had wanted to freeze out of her life.

‘Why
didn’t you bring Gillespie in for questioning like you did Etta?’

‘It
wasn’t that simple, not with his connections,’ Benwick said. ‘Besides, I’d wanted to stick it to the bosses at Scotland Yard by rolling up the entire network of abusers they’d let off during Kid Glove, those hypocrite lawyers, show-biz people and bloody politicians like Guy Inglis.’

McCall
took out one of the photographs he’d shot of Gillespie in Birmingham.

‘Do
you recognise anyone apart from Gillespie?’

‘Of
course. That’s your chum, Roly Vickers.’

‘But
what’s he doing with Gillespie?’

‘For
Christ’s sake keep up, McCall. I’ve told you - Vickers is an MI5 asset. He runs Gillespie at arm’s length but on their behalf, has done for years.’

‘But
Gillespie is a dyed-in-the-wool old Trotskyite.’

‘Who’s
on wages from Vickers for giving him the inside track about every strike in every critical area of the economy before it’s even declared.’

‘But
with his politics, why would he subvert his own union?’

‘Vickers
and the spooks have him over a barrel.’

‘Why’s
that?’

‘Because
of all the kids he procures for the likes of Inglis and who he abuses himself. When you’ve got a snout by the balls like this, his heart and mind usually follow.’

‘So
the spooks connive at the criminal abuse of these kids because it gives them an early warning system about strikes but better still, leverage over a politician who may one day run the country?’

‘And
all thanks to Roly Vickers. Make no mistake, McCall - he’s not on the side of the good guys, not on this or in much else.’

But
herein was McCall’s problem. Vickers had to be a major target in any media exposé. Yet he had equal dirt on McCall. Vickers could portray him as a willing stooge of the security services, rewarded with stories and privileged information. The liberal media would never trust McCall ever again. To move against Vickers was to court mutually assured destruction. But he’d no choice.