“No.” She gave a hearty sigh, one she knew he’d be able to hear. “I do mean it, Tommy. I give up. What time shall we leave?”
“Are you being quite serious?”
“Of course I am. I’m stubborn, but I’m not a fool. If there’s no point carrying on with this business, then there’s no point, is there.”
“You do see— ”
“I do. One can’t argue with forensics. That’s how it is.” She waited a moment for this to sink in. Then she repeated, “When do we leave? You woke me up, by the way, so I’ll need time to pack. To shower. Do my hair. Whatever. I’d like breakfast as well.”
“Ten o’clock?” he said. “Thank you, Deb.”
“I do see it’s better this way,” she lied.
WINDERMERE
CUMBRIA
Zed Benjamin had barely slept. His story was crumbling. What had started out too hot to be handled without oven gloves was fast becoming cold fish on a platter. He hadn’t the slightest clue what to do with the information he had because he had no information that amounted to a blockbuster of a story. In his daydreams it had been an exposé, front page material in which was revealed that a secret investigation launched by New Scotland Yard was digging up dirt about Nicholas Fairclough and about what truly went for his recovery from years of drug abuse, which was the murder of a cousin standing in the way of his success. It was the tale of a bloke who had managed to pull the wool over the eyes of his parents, his family, and his fellows by posing as a do-gooder while all the time engaged in vile machinations to eliminate someone blocking his access to the family fortune. The story was accompanied by photos— DS Cotter, Fairclough, his wife, the pele project, and Fairclough Industries among others— and its length and quality begged for a leap onto page 3 and from there to 4 and 5 as well. All of it rested beneath the byline Zedekiah Benjamin. His name in journalistic lights.
For that to happen, however, the story had to be about Nicholas Fairclough. But, if nothing else, his day with DS Cotter had proved that Nick Fairclough was of no interest to the Met. The day had also proved that Fairclough’s wife was a monumental dead end.
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” was how the red-haired detective had reported upon her interview with the woman they’d followed from the Kent-Howath Foundation for Disabled Veterans to Lancaster University and back again, all in the company of Alatea Fairclough.
“What d’you mean ‘nothing’?” had been Zed’s demand.
She’d said the woman— Lucy Keverne was her name— and Alatea had gone to see a specialist at the university about “female troubles.” They were Lucy’s “female troubles,” evidently, and Alatea had accompanied her as a friend.
“Shit,” he’d muttered. “That’s bloody nowhere, isn’t it?”
“It does put us back to square one,” she replied.
No, he thought. It put her back to square one. It put him in danger of losing his job.
He found that he wanted to talk to Yaffa. She was wise, and if anyone was going to be able to suggest how he could get himself out of this mess and onto a story that Rodney Aronson would find a suitable return for the money invested by The Source, it was going to be Yaffa.
So he rang her. When he heard her voice, he felt nearly overcome with relief. He said, “Morning, darling.”
She said, “Zed, hello,” and, “Mama Benjamin, it’s our lovely man ringing,” to tell him Susanna was somewhere nearby. “I miss you, dearest.” And she laughed at something Susanna said in the distance. She said, “Mama Benjamin tells me to stop trying to ensnare her son. He is an uncatchable bachelor, she tells me. Is that true?”
“Not if you’re trying to do the catching,” he replied. “I’ve never had bait I wanted to bite so badly.”
“You wicked boy!” And to the side, “No, no, Mama Benjamin. I will absolutely not tell you what your son is saying. I will say that he’s making me a bit faint, though.” And to Zed, “You are, you know. I’m quite light-headed.”
“Well, good thing it’s not your head I’m interested in.”
She laughed. Then she said in a completely altered voice, “Ah. She’s gone into the loo. We’re safe. How are you, Zed?”
He found he wasn’t ready for the shift from Yaffa the Putative Lover to Yaffa the Co-conspirator. He said, “Missing you, Yaf. I wish you were with me.”
“Let me help you from a distance. I’m happy to do that.”
For an insane moment, Zed thought she was actually suggesting phone sex, and in his present state, that would have been a welcome diversion. But then she said, “Are you close to the information you need? You must be worried about the story.”
That brought him round, cold water on his ardour. He said with a groan, “That bloody story.” He told her where he was with it. He told her everything, as he’d been doing all along. And as she’d been doing all along, she listened. He concluded with, “So there’s sod-all to report on. I could massage the facts and write that Scotland Yard’s up here investigating Nick Fairclough due to the untimely and suspicious death of his cousin, who happened to hold the purse strings of Fairclough Industries, and we all know what that means, don’t we, gentle readers? But the truth of the matter happens to be that Scotland Yard look like they’re investigating Alatea Fairclough and getting about as far with her as I’ve got with her husband. We’re in the same position, the Met and I. The only difference is this detective can toddle back to London and give the high-ups the all-clear, but if I return without a story, I’m done for.” He heard his tone as he concluded and he said hastily, “Sorry. I’m whingeing a bit.”
“Zed, you can whinge all you need to.”
“Ta, Yaf. You’re… well you’re just how you are.”
He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Thank you, I think. Now let us put our heads together. When one door closes, another opens.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning perhaps it’s time you did what you were intended to do. You’re a poet, Zed, not a tabloid journalist. Remaining one is going to bleed your soul of its creative power. It’s time for you to write your poetry.”
“No one supports himself on his poetry.” Zed laughed self-derisively. “Look at me. I’m twenty-five years old and I’m living with my mum. I can’t even support myself as a reporter, for the love of God.”
“Ah, Zed. Don’t talk this way. You need only someone to believe in you. I believe in you.”
“Bloody lot of good that does me. You’re going back to Tel Aviv.”
There was a silence at the other end. Into it came the indication of another phone call to Zed’s mobile. He said, “Yaffa? You still there?”
“Oh yes. I’m here,” she said.
The other call was insistent. Rodney, probably. It was close to the time he had to face the music. He said, “Yaffa, I’ve got another call. I probably should— ”
“I don’t have to,” she said quickly. “I don’t even need to. You think about that, Zed.” Then she rang off.
For a moment he stared at nothing at all. Then he took the other call.
It was the Scotland Yard detective. She said, “I’m going to speak to this woman in Lancaster again. There’s more here than meets the eye. It’s time you and I worked together to twist her arm.”
BARROW-IN-FURNESS AND GRANGE-OVER-SANDS
CUMBRIA
One of the last people Manette expected to see turn up on the premises of Fairclough Industries was Kaveh Mehran. As far as she could recall, he’d never been there before. Ian had certainly never taken him round for formal introductions, and Kaveh hadn’t come on his own expecting to be introduced. Nearly everyone knew, of course, that Ian had walked out on his marriage because of a young man. But that was the extent of it. So when Kaveh was shown into her office, she blinked in confusion before she realised he’d probably come to collect Ian’s personal belongings. It needed to be done and no one had yet thought about doing it.