Believing the Lie

“She could be lying. There are motives, Tommy.”

“Without anything more than motives, there’s no case to present, Deb. That’s how it works. Frankly, people often have motives to do away with other people. They often have the wish to do away with other people. And still they never lift a finger against them. That’s what apparently happened here. It’s time to return to London.”

“Even without putting the matter of Alatea Fairclough to rest?”

“Deb — ”

“Just listen to me for a moment: Everything about Alatea suggests secrecy. People with secrets have motive to do all sorts of things to protect those secrets.”

“That may be, but whatever she might have done or might be doing to protect her secrets — assuming she has them — what she didn’t do was murder Ian Cresswell. That’s why we came up here. We now know the truth. As I said, it’s time to go home.”

Deborah got out of the bed. The room was cold. She shivered and moved to the electric fire. It had clicked off in the night, and she turned it on. There was moisture climbing the window, against which she brushed her hand to look out at the day. It was still quite dark outside, she saw, the road and the pavement wet. The glitter of the street lamps and the traffic lights on the corner winked brightly against it.

She said, “Tommy, those missing pages from Conception magazine have said from the first that something’s going on with Alatea.”

“I don’t disagree,” was his perfectly reasonable reply. “And we have a good idea of what that something is. Conception. But you already knew that. Didn’t Nicholas Fairclough tell you that when you first met?”

“Yes. But — ”

“It’s reasonable that she wouldn’t want to talk about this with a stranger, Deborah. Do you like to talk about it with anyone?”

That was an unfair blow, and he had to know it. But Deborah wasn’t about to let her reaction to the question get the better of her ability to reason. She said, “None of this makes much sense, talking about conception or not. This woman, Lucy Keverne, told me she has her eggs harvested. All right. Perhaps she does. Then what was she doing at Lancaster University in the company of Alatea Fairclough? Why was she in the George Childress Centre with her?”

“Perhaps donating an egg to Alatea,” Lynley said.

“The egg needs to be fertilised. Wouldn’t Nicholas need to be there?”

“Perhaps Alatea had his sperm with her.”

“In a turkey baster, you mean?” Deborah asked pointedly. “So why would Lucy be there as well?”

“To donate eggs on the spot?”

“Really? Fine. All right. Then why wouldn’t Nicholas be there to donate sperm as fresh as possible, real little swimmers, that sort of thing?”

Lynley sighed. Deborah wondered where he was. On a land line somewhere since his sigh had come to her so clearly. This suggested he was still at Ireleth Hall. He said, “Deb, I don’t know. I don’t know how it’s done. I don’t know how it all works.”

“I know you don’t. But I do, believe me. And one thing I know is that even if they do the business with one egg or two dozen from Lucy and sperm from Nicholas, they’re not implanting them in Alatea on the spot. So if Lucy’s a donor as she claims to be and if she’s giving Alatea eggs for some reason and if sperm from Nicholas are being used — ”

“None of it matters,” Lynley cut in firmly. “Because it has nothing to do with Ian Cresswell’s death and we need to get back to London.”

“You need to. I do not.”

“Deborah.” His voice was losing that patient tone. Deborah heard Simon in it. How alike they were at the end of the day, he and Tommy. The differences between them were only superficial.

“What?” she asked sharply.

“I’m heading back to London this morning. You know that’s why I’ve phoned. What I’d like to do is stop in Milnthorpe, follow you to the car hire so you can return your car, then take you back to London with me.”

“Because you don’t trust me to get there on my own?” she demanded.

“I rather wanted the company,” he replied. “It’s a long drive.”

“She said she’d never be a surrogate, Tommy. If all she’s going to do is donate eggs for Alatea to use, why not just say that? Why tell me she wouldn’t discuss it?”

“I have no idea. And it’s not important. It doesn’t matter. Ian Cresswell’s death was no one’s fault but his own. He knew about the loose stones in the boathouse. He didn’t take care. That’s where things lie, Deb, and nothing about this woman in Lancaster is going to change that. So the question is: Why can’t you let it go? And I think we both know the answer to that.”

His words were quiet enough, but they were unlike Tommy. They spoke of the degree to which Simon had persuaded him to take his side. But then, why wouldn’t he? Deborah asked herself. They had years of history, Tommy and Simon. They had decades of history. They shared one terrible automobile accident and the love for a murdered woman as well. These things bound them to each other in ways she would never be able to surmount. That being the case, there was only one alternative.

She said, “Very well. You win, Tommy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’ll go back to London with you.”

“Deborah…”

“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 expose, 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