The Convenience of Lies (8 page)

Thirteen

Hoare waited at Café Leila, booted and suited and ready for the world. Benwick might play the Florida cop but Hoare was old Fleet Street, dressed to meet duke or dustman and cause offence to neither.

He’d
breakfasted on steak and eggs with two cups of coffee, black, well sugared then the first cigarette of the day. This was always the best. It cleared his head for plots and schemes. Benwick had only wanted a photo call for the frogmen’s search of the reservoir. But Hoare knew a theatrical agent who could lay on a Ruby look-alike for a reconstruction of her last known movements.

‘We’ll
get terrific press pictures and better TV coverage.’

‘Great
idea,’ Benwick said. ‘Glad I thought of it.’

Hoare
saw McCall crossing the street towards Café Leila in a blue cotton jacket and
stone-coloured
Chinos. McCall always looked nervy and drawn but that morning, seemed even more so. Hoare bought him a coffee and asked for a receipt.

‘OK,
I’ve talked to The Sunday Telegraph,’ McCall said. ‘They want twelve-hundred words and pictures on Ruby.’

‘That’s
a whole page.’

‘Yes,
I sold the idea hard but I must have the mother exclusive, Malky. The piece won’t work otherwise.’

‘I’ll
talk to Benwick. It should bring a smile to his face but don’t bet the farm on it.’

‘So
what else can you give me for old time’s sake?’

‘Listen,
Mac. You can’t keep leaning on me like this. I’ll give you Benwick’s mobile number and his confidential direct line then that’s it. Debt paid.’

Hoare
left to meet Benwick for a final briefing with the frogmen who would search the reservoir. Despite their friendship, McCall didn’t trust Hoare enough to tell him about Ruby’s brilliant artworks, still less that he was her aunt’s lover.

He
stayed in the cafe to write up his notes about what he’d already observed of Ruby’s habitat - its litter, the dog shit, kebab smells, noise, traffic, the roaming neighbourhood kids from whose unthinking cruelty she sought escape in a private fantasia of castles and princesses. Such a child with such an imagination - and so rare a talent - could hardly be of this world and might already be in the next. That was the tragedy unfolding here which was why her story was so compelling.

‘You
are from the newspapers, yes… about Ruby?’

McCall
looked up. A woman stood over him, late middle age, white apron, darting eyes and scraped-back hair reddened by henna.

‘Yes,
I’m writing about Ruby. Did you know her?’

‘I
am Leila. This is my place. Ruby come and have food here almost every day.’

She
sat down beside him. Her long, geranium-coloured nails dug into the flesh of her palms as she told him about an unlikely friendship.

‘I
never send Ruby away. Not me. Always hungry, no playmates. Her mother, not good woman, don’t deserve Ruby.’

‘Why
wasn’t she a good woman?’

‘Men
come to her, all times. Many men. Sorry but it’s truth. If only Ruby visit me that
day…
but no… and now all this.’

‘Sounds
like you were very fond of her.’

‘Yes…
such a strange child, like no other… so clever but no one knew.’

‘In
what way was she clever?’

‘Listen,
you come. You come with me.’

McCall
followed her upstairs to living quarters furnished like the inside of a gypsy caravan – prints of snowy mountains, vases of artificial flowers, two plaster dogs either side of a gas fire. She unhooked a framed pencil portrait from the wall.

‘See
this? This is me.’

It
was Leila all right – hooded eyes, laugh-lined and knowing, slightly Semitic nose and an alluring, full lipped smile, generous and kind.

‘Ruby
did this of me.’

‘What,
she sat you down and drew you?’

‘No,
from memory she does this. She just come in one day and give it me. Believe me, if Ruby die, some of me die, too.’

*

Viewed from the reservoir’s edge, the very stillness of such a huge volume of water appeared threatening. Hoare figured it would take him at least twenty, twenty-five minutes just to walk the cinder path around it.

He
lit another cigarette and sent the match fizzing into the reeds. The rain was holding off but a bank of cloud started massing behind the battlements of the pumping station. Benwick approached shaving his chin with a battery razor.

‘Another
night on the tiles?’

‘I
wish,’ Benwick said. ‘Big day, today. You all set?’

‘The
kid actress and her mum should be here shortly.’

‘And
the reptiles?’

‘Couple
of TV crews lined up, the local papers are all sending and I’ve just had a word with that freelance guy I told you about.’

‘McCall…
yeah, interesting bloke.’

‘You’ve
checked up on him?’

‘Always
best to be prepared.’

‘You
need to watch him. Like I said, he won’t be fobbed off with any old fanny.’

‘So
I gather.’

‘He’ll
want a long talk with Etta. You happy with that?’

‘So
long as you sit in.’

‘What
about giving him an inside track on Etta’s private life? That’d spin the story very big.’

‘We’ll
see. Meanwhile, you do all that front of house guff with the TV people.’

‘OK,
but won’t they be wondering why you’re not doing it?’

‘Not
too sure I care a damn what they wonder.’

They
headed to the pumping station car park to meet the divers. A slight wind began to disturb the perfect reflection of the castle on the far bank. Benwick paused, hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring across the reservoir.

‘She’s
out there, Mr Hoare… poor little sod… somewhere, out there.’

Fourteen

McCall watched the rubber-suited frogmen bob about like seals, sleek and glossy as they worked their systematic way from the main sluice towards the trees Ruby was known to climb. He got shots of them diving into the watery gloom only to emerge to give the thumbs-down.

He’d
also covered the child actress being filmed for television in a copy of the green polka dot dress Ruby had on when she vanished. Police had the look-alike walk from Linden House to the parade of take-away shops and convenience stores on Woodberry Street, hoping to jog the memory of anyone who might have seen Ruby.

Women
watched the performance from doorways or hanging out of windows to catch a glimpse of what might be on the TV news that evening. But the plastic Venetian blinds at Café Leila remained down. The sight of this play-acting little ghost caused the owner to shake with dread.

McCall
told Lexie he’d ring later to say if he discovered anything new. For now, he couldn’t help smiling, seeing Hoare comb back his silver hair as a TV camera crew set up to interview him. Weekly paper reporters stood behind the tripod and scribbled down his every word. If only they knew.

‘We
need people to think back hard,’ Hoare said. ‘Do they remember seeing Ruby that afternoon? If so, what was she doing? Where was she going, was she with anyone? It is vital we find out every last detail.’

The
young TV researcher asked Hoare why the reservoir was being searched.

‘We
have to explore every possibility. We know this was Ruby’s playground; a place where she felt safe and free but she could’ve had an accident.’

‘So
something could’ve happened to her here?’

‘We
have to fear the worst but hope for the best.’

Hoare
knew a snappy sound-bite when it came to him.

McCall
kept the intriguing DI Benwick in sight. There was much to talk to him about. But that could wait. More urgent was McCall’s need to have a face to face with Etta. He took Hoare to one side after he’d done his TV interview.

‘Malky,
old mate - where’s Mum?’

‘Bear
with me. I think she must have slipped out of the flat for a minute.’

‘So
she’s been at home all this time? I could’ve talked to her there.’

‘Someone’s
looking for her right now. We’ll find her then she’s all yours. Honest.’

*

The first gusts of rain hit the reservoir like fistfuls of gravel. It did not trouble the frogmen but drove all the other hacks and photographers except back to their offices. McCall saw Benwick and Hoare in a huddle as if something was not going to plan. McCall went to shake hands with Benwick.

‘Sorry
to barge in. I’m Francis McCall.’

‘Yes,
I know.’

‘OK,
well, time’s getting on and I need to talk to Ruby’s mother for my feature piece.’

‘So
do we.’

‘How
do you mean?’

‘She’s
gone walk-about.’

‘What,
she’s missing?’

‘Uniform
are looking for her. We’ll find her.’

They
were interrupted by two identical ivy green Rovers pulling into the pumping station car park. The drivers got out and put up brollies for their passengers - four men and a woman - who hurried through the downpour to the security manager’s office.

‘That’ll
be our pizzas,’ Benwick said.

‘Or
your oysters and champagne.’

Benwick
turned to McCall and asked what he meant.

‘The
tall guy, you must recognise him - Guy Inglis, rising star of the Tories. Even his enemies have him down as a future prime minister.’

‘How
do you know him, Mac?’ Hoare said.

‘I
interviewed him on a defence story a while back.’

‘So
what the hell’s he doing here?’ Benwick said.

Then
one of the chauffeurs came out and beckoned Benwick inside the building. Waiting for him was a parliamentary subcommittee inquiring into operational police costs. They’d chosen the Ruby investigation for an unannounced inspection.

*

Rain clouds gave way to blue skies and sunshine which drew tiny wisps of vapour from the warm earth and beaten down weeds at the reservoir edge. Hoare suggested taking the MPs to the pumping station roof to get an overview of the search as Benwick briefed them on the case so far.

McCall
saw Inglis looking at him, as if trying to remember why he knew his face. The female MP was all bosom and bluster. The creases in her fleshy pink neck looked damp. She struggled up the last narrow steps to the top with her briefcase and clipboard then leant heavily against the parapet.

‘You
say this little girl… this Ruby… she’s handicapped in some way?’

‘Asperger’s
syndrome,’ Benwick said. ‘It means she’s quite naïve and unworldly and any child who’s that vulnerable – ’

‘Yes,
yes. I’ve heard of it. But tell me, what are the daily financial implications during a case like this – overtime, transport costs, specialist teams, that sort of thing.’

‘I’m
sure these things are important but my priority is finding a missing child.’

‘Of
course it is but to what extent do you consider costs during an investigation?’

‘That’s
for the accountants. I repeat, my sole interest is in finding Ruby.’

‘So
you would bring in this diving team for instance without a second thought?’

‘How
else would you suggest I find out what’s at the bottom of a reservoir?’

‘No
need to be defensive. I am trying to understand your decision-making processes.’

Before
Benwick’s contempt became any more obvious, Inglis intervened with a chairman’s emollient tact.

‘I’m
sure the inspector realises we know he’s got a job to do,’ he said. ‘But by the same token, our duty is to improve our police systems in the future. We have to make sure the public purse is wisely used at all times.’

These
were not people who knew anything of Benwick’s world - or McCall’s. They were versed in double entry bookkeeping, profit, loss. Theirs was the language and logic of management, drier than dandruff and about as inspiring.

The
MPs started to head back to their limos when Benwick’s eye caught something in the middle of the reservoir. He shouted to the frogmen, pointing to what he’d seen. The parliamentary delegation leaned over the battlements.

‘God
almighty,’ Inglis said. ‘That’s not her, is it?’

McCall
got focus and saw a pale, distorted shape through his viewfinder. It was like a starfish slowly floating towards the surface. Benwick was already clattering down five flights of metal stairs followed by Hoare and the unfit MPs trying to keep up.

Two
of the divers began paddling a rubber dingy to the centre deeps. McCall fired off shot after shot. The body was recovered then rowed to where Benwick helped to lay it gently on a bank of marshy grass.

She’d
not a mark on her, only a smear of mud here and there. It made no sense for her not to wake, to rub her eyes and rise up.

Instead,
she gleamed in the sunshine like a flawless marble statue retrieved from a civilisation lost beneath the waves. A circle of onlookers gathered. No one moved, no one spoke.

Nothing
disturbed this almost photographic composition - still life with figures. McCall put his camera away. This was less out of respect than the guilty realisation he could almost be back in the bush, taking pictures he could never use to satisfy a compulsion to stare into the face of unnatural death.

This
much he knew as he gazed on the naked body…. not that of little Ruby Ross but of her mother, Etta.