Believing the Lie

The Source into the midst of an ongoing investigation.

What she did tell him was that she reckoned it was going to come down to money. What she didn’t tell him was that if Lucy Keverne had been advertising herself as an egg donor, as she claimed, then she hadn’t been doing it out of the goodness of her heart but rather for the cash. Zed was going to hand over tabloid money for her story, whatever her actual story was. He didn’t know that yet, but he would soon.

The one subject Deborah didn’t think about was why this part of the Cresswell case was important to her. The local coroner had been convinced that the death of Ian Cresswell had been an accident. Simon was absolutely certain of that fact, and it was his job to be certain of such things. Tommy had agreed. It seemed as if the entire reason for Tommy to be in Cumbria had relatively little to do with Ian Cresswell’s death in the first place, so for her to be tenaciously maintaining that there was more here than met the eye was a matter calling for close introspection. Deborah knew that at heart but she didn’t want to go there in mind. The chain of thought created by such self-examination was not going to be pleasant.

At the Kent-Howath Foundation for Disabled Veterans, she said, “Here’s how it has to be,” to which Zed replied, “Wait a bloody minute,” doubtless at the thought that once again he would be playing chauffeur while she gathered information that she might or might not share with him. Well, who could blame him for being miffed? she asked herself. The last time they’d gone this route, he’d ended up with little more than a half-empty tank of petrol.

“I’ll ring you once I have her alone,” she said. “If she sees us both at once, I guarantee, she’ll not say another word about Alatea Fairclough. And why should she? If she’s up to something illegal, she’s hardly going to confess it, is she?”

He didn’t ask why the hell they were there at all, then, which was just as well. Deborah knew she was going to have to do some considerable fancy dancing with Lucy Keverne, and she needed most of her wits to do that, not to create fictive reasons for why Zed had to play the part she was going to orchestrate for him. She didn’t really know if she’d get that far with Lucy Keverne anyway. She was flying without radar on this one.

The same old gentleman who’d welcomed her on the previous day did so today. He remembered her because of her hair, which was one of the few benefits, she reckoned, of being a redhead. He asked if she wanted to speak with Miss Lucy Keverne again. He held up a sheaf of papers and said, “Reading ’er play, I am, and lemme tell you if it’s not a West End winner, then I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

So she was a playwright, Deborah thought, perhaps supporting herself by working here at the disabled soldiers’ home and topping up her funds with the occasional donation of eggs? That was the grimmest sort of news to be had, since perhaps the only action she’d been taking in the company of Alatea Fairclough was in the nature of research. Well, one way or another they had to know, Deborah thought. Meanwhile, she had no intention of letting on that she’d been told about the playwriting. No need to give the woman in advance a direction in which to spin her story.

Lucy’s face registered surprise when she walked into the lobby and saw who was waiting to speak to her. Then her face altered at once to suspicion.

Deborah didn’t give her a chance to speak first. She quickly strode to her and placed a hand on her arm. She said to her quietly, “Here’s what you need to know, Ms. Keverne. New Scotland Yard is here in Cumbria and so is a reporter from The Source. One way or another you’re going to end up telling your story — the true one this time — and it’s up to you how and when you want to tell it.”

Lucy said, “I can’t — ”

“You’ve no choice any longer. I deceived you yesterday. I apologise for that, but I’d hoped to get to the root of the matter without bringing in anyone who might make you uncomfortable. Obviously, Alatea Fairclough’s being investigated. The trail has led directly to you.”

“I’ve done nothing illegal.”

“So you say,” Deborah said. “And if that’s the case — ”

“It is.”

“ — then you can decide which route has more to offer you.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. The word offer had done the trick. “What are you talking about?”

Deborah looked round furtively and said with great meaning, “We can’t speak here in the lobby.”

“Come with me, then.”

Even better, Deborah thought.

This time, they didn’t go to the garden but rather to an office, which seemed to be her own. There were two desks in it, but the other wasn’t occupied. Lucy closed the door behind them and stood in front of it. She said, “Who’s offering what?”

“Tabloids pay for their stories. You must know that.”

“Is that who you are?”

“A tabloid journalist? No. But I’ve got one with me, and if you’ll consent to talk to him, I’m here to make sure you get paid for what you have to say. My part is to assess the value of the story. You tell me, I negotiate with him.”

“That can’t possibly be how it works,” Lucy said shrewdly. “What are you, then? An agent for The Source? Some kind of… what? News scout or something?”

“I’m not sure it matters who I am,” Deborah said. “I think it matters more what I have to offer. I can ring the DI from New Scotland Yard who’s here in Cumbria on a matter of murder or I can ring a journalist who’ll walk in, listen to your story, and pay you for it.”

“Murder? What’s going on?”

“That’s not important at the moment. This situation between you and Alatea Fairclough is. You must decide. What’s it to be? A visit from New Scotland Yard or a journalist happy to hear what you have to say?”

Lucy Keverne thought this over while outside the office, some sort of trolley trundled down the corridor. She finally said, “How much, then?” and Deborah breathed more easily now that Lucy was swimming closer to the bait.

She said, “I suppose that depends on how sensational your story is.”

Lucy looked towards a window that faced the garden in which she and Deborah had spoken on the previous day. A gust of wind shuddered the slim branches of a Japanese maple outside, dislodging the rest of the leaves still clinging to it stubbornly. Deborah waited with please please please running through her mind. This was, she knew, the only option left to get at the truth. If Lucy Keverne didn’t go for it, there was nothing more to do but return to London as bidden.

Lucy finally said, “There is no story. At least, there is no story that could possibly interest The Source. All there is is an arrangement between two women. I’d make more of it if I could, believe me, because I could use the money. I’d prefer not to work here. I’d prefer to sit at home and write my plays and send them off to London and see them produced. But that’s not happening any time soon, so I work here in the mornings and I write in the afternoons and occasionally I top up my income by donating eggs, which was why I placed the advertisement in Conception magazine. I told you this.”

“You also told me you would never consider being a surrogate.”

“All right. That part wasn’t true.”

“So why did you lie about this yesterday?”

“Obviously, it was a private matter. It’s still a private matter.”

“And the money?”

“What about it?”

“As I understand how everything works,” Deborah pointed out, “you’re paid for allowing your eggs to be harvested. But if you’re a surrogate for someone, you receive nothing. Just your expenses. Eggs equal profit while surrogacy comes from the goodness of your heart. Isn’t that how it works?”

Lucy was silent. Into her silence, Deborah’s mobile rang. She jerked it impatiently from her shoulder bag and saw the incoming number.

“Are you playing me for a bloody idiot?” Zed demanded when she answered. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m going to have to ring you back,” she said.

“No sodding way. I’m coming in.”