Believing the Lie

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“What?” Manette said to Freddie in anguish. “What?”

“We need a map of the town,” Freddie told her, “which we should be able to find in a bookshop easily enough.”

“And then?” she asked him.

“Then we need a plan,” he said. “Either that or one monumental, excellent piece of luck.”

WINDERMERE CUMBRIA

They had the latter. The police station was on the outskirts of town, straddling Bowness-on-Windermere and Windermere itself. When they left the station, Freddie drove further into Windermere, and they were traveling up Lake Road just coming upon New Road when Manette spotted Tim. He was leaving a small grocery, a striped blue and white plastic bag in his hands. He was inspecting its contents, and he fished inside to bring out a bag of crisps, which he proceeded to tear open with his teeth.

Manette cried, “There he is! Pull over, Freddie.”

“Hang on, old girl.” Freddie drove on.

She cried, “But what are you — ” and she squirmed in her seat. “We’ll lose him!”

A short distance along, Freddie pulled to the kerb, once Tim was safely behind them and walking in the opposite direction. He said to Manette, “You’ve got your mobile?”

“Of course. But, Freddie — ”

“Listen, darling. There’s more involved here than just scooping up Tim.”

“But he’s in danger.”

“As are a lot of other children. You have your mobile. Set it to vibrate and follow him. I’ll park and ring you. All right? He should lead us to wherever they’re going to film, if that’s what he’s here for.”

She saw logic in this, cool and clear-headed Freddie logic. She said, “Yes, yes, of course. You’re right,” and grabbed her bag and made certain of her mobile. She started to get out of the car but then she stopped and turned to him.

“What?” he said.

“You’re the most wonderful man, Freddie McGhie,” she told him. “Nothing that’s happened before this moment matters as much.”

“As much as what?”

“As my loving you.” She shut the car door smartly before he replied.

ARNSIDE CUMBRIA

Nicholas Fairclough made very short order of letting Deborah feel his wrath. He jerked his car to a halt in the driveway and leapt out onto the gravel. He strode towards her saying, “Who the hell are you, then? What are you doing here?” For a man whose previous meetings with her had been conducted in such a mild-mannered fashion, Fairclough was completely transformed. If eyes could be said to blaze, his were doing just that. “Where is he? How much time do we have?”

Deborah felt pinned by the ferocity of the questions and only able to express herself inarticulately. She stammered, “I don’t know… How long do these things take? I’m not sure. Mr. Fairclough, I tried… You see, I did tell him there was no story to be had because that’s the truth of the matter. There is no story.”

Fairclough drew himself up at that, as if Deborah had placed her hand on his chest to stop him. He said, “Story? What? Who the hell are you? Christ, d’you work for The Source as well? Montenegro didn’t send you?”

Deborah frowned. “The Source? No. That’s something entirely… Who on earth’s Montenegro?”

Nicholas looked from her to Arnside House and back to her. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“Deborah St. James, as I always was. As I said I was.”

“But there’s no film. There’s no documentary. We’ve worked that out. There’s bloody nothing you’ve told us that’s true. So what do you want? What do you know? You’ve been to Lancaster with that bloke from The Source. He’s told me as much. Or can I not believe him, either?”

Deborah licked her lips. It was cold and damp and miserable out of doors and the fog was becoming thicker as they spoke. She wanted a coal fire and something hot to drink if only to hold the cup in her hands, but she couldn’t leave with Fairclough blocking her way, and her only option left was the truth.

She was there to help the Scotland Yard detective, she informed Nicholas Fairclough. She’d come with her husband, a forensic specialist who evaluated evidence during investigations. The newsman from The Source had, for some reason, concluded that she was the detective from the Met and she’d let him think that in order to give the real detective and her husband time to do the work they’d come to do regarding the death of Ian Cresswell undisturbed by a tabloid.

“I don’t know anyone called Montenegro,” she concluded. “I’ve never heard of him. If it is a him, and I daresay it is? Who is he?”

“Raul Montenegro. Someone trying to find my wife.”

“So that’s what she meant,” Deborah murmured.

“You’ve talked to her?”

“At cross purposes, I expect,” Deborah said. “She must have thought we were speaking of this Raul Montenegro while I thought we were speaking of the reporter from The Source. I’m afraid I told her he’s in Windermere, but I meant the reporter.”

“Oh my God.” Fairclough headed towards the house, saying over his shoulder. “Where is she now?”

“Inside,” and as he began to jog towards the door, “Mr. Fairclough? One thing more?”

He stopped, turned. She said, “I tried to tell her this. I tried to apologise. What I mean is… The surrogacy situation? You’ve absolutely nothing to fear. I told Mr. Benjamin there was no story in it and there isn’t. And besides, I completely and utterly understand. We’re rather… Your wife and I … We’re rather sisters in this matter.”

He stared at her. He was pasty faced anyway, but Deborah saw that now all colour had left his lips as well, rendering him ghostlike in appearance, aided by the fog that curled at his feet. “Sisters,” he said.

“Yes indeed. I, too, so much want a baby and I haven’t been able to — ”

But he was gone before she was able to conclude.

WINDERMERE CUMBRIA

When Tim returned to Shots! Toy4You was behind the counter chatting with an Anglican priest. They both turned as Tim entered the shop, and the priest gave him the kind of once-over that spoke of an evaluation being made. Tim concluded he was there as a fellow actor for Toy4You’s film, and he registered this with a lurch of his gut that rapidly formed itself into a hot ball of anger. A fucking vicar, he thought. Just another bleeding hypocrite like the rest of the world. This pathetic excuse for a human being stood up in front of a congregation every Sunday and did his bit with the Word of God and handed out communion wafers and then on the side when no one was the