Believing the Lie

“In other words, did she have a reason to want Ian dead?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

Fairclough took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Ian advised me on financial matters, as you know. He was in charge of all finances. That was his job. He was good at that and I needed him.”

“I understand,” Lynley said.

“He’d insisted for a while — perhaps three years — that I cut Mignon off. He never understood that the girl can’t work. She’s never been able. Ian’s point was that giving her money was what had crippled her and she was otherwise perfectly fine. It was a bone of contention between us. Not a big one and it only came up once or twice a year. But I had no intention of… I just couldn’t. When your child’s been badly injured… When you have children of your own, you’ll understand, Tommy.”

“Did Mignon know about Ian’s wanting to cut her off?”

Fairclough nodded, reluctantly. “He spoke to her. When I wouldn’t agree to stopping her allowance, he went to see her. He talked to her about ‘bleeding money from her father,’ as he put it. Mignon told me. She was hurt, of course. She told me I could cut her off at once. She invited me to do it, in fact.”

“I daresay she knew you wouldn’t.”

“She’s my child,” Fairclough said.

“And your other children? Had Manette a reason to want Ian out of the picture?”

“Manette adored Ian. I think at one time she would have liked to marry him. Long before Kaveh, of course.”

“And his feelings for her?”

Fairclough finished off his sherry and went to pour another. He motioned the decanter in Lynley’s direction. Again Lynley demurred. “He was fond of Manette,” Fairclough said. “But that was the extent of it.”

“She’s divorced, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Her former husband works for me. Freddie McGhie. So does she for that matter.”

“Is there any reason Freddie McGhie might have wanted Ian out of the way? You did tell me that you haven’t definitely fixed on a successor at Fairclough Industries. How do things stand with Ian gone?”

Fairclough said nothing at first. It seemed to Lynley that they were getting close to something Fairclough preferred to ignore. Lynley raised an eyebrow. Fairclough said, “As I’ve said, I’ve not decided. Either Manette or Freddie could take over. They know the business. They’ve worked for me their entire careers. Freddie especially would be a good choice, despite being Manette’s ex. He knows every department and he’s worked in them all. I’d prefer a member of the family, as would Valerie, but if no one has the experience and the proper outlook, Freddie would be the logical one to take up the reins.”

“Would you consider Nicholas?”

“That would be madness, with his history. But he’s trying to prove himself to me.”

“What did Ian think about that?”

“He reckoned Nick would fail. But as Nick had promised me that he was a changed man once and for all, I wanted to give him a chance to demonstrate it. He’s working his way up from the bottom at the business. I rather admire him for that.”

“Is that the deal you struck with him?”

“Not at all. It was his idea. I expect it’s what Alatea advised him to do.”

“So it’s possible he could take over the company?”

“Anything’s possible,” Fairclough said. “As I said, it’s not been decided.”

“But you must have given thought to it at one point or another, else why have me come up here and look into Nicholas?”

Fairclough was silent. It was answer enough. Nicholas was, after all, the son. And the son, not the meek, was generally the one to inherit the earth.

Lynley went on. “Anyone else with a motive to be rid of Ian? Anyone you can think of with an ax to grind, a secret to keep, an issue to clear?”

“No one at all, as far as I know.” Fairclough sipped his sherry, but his eyes stayed on Lynley’s over the rim of the glass.

Lynley knew he was lying, but he didn’t know why. He also felt they hadn’t got to the bottom of why he himself was there in the first place: at Ireleth Hall, investigating something that had already been resolved in a way that should have relieved the man. Lynley said, “Bernard, no one is actually in the clear on this except those who had no access to the boathouse. You’ve a decision to make if you want the truth, whatever it is.”

“What sort of decision?”

“If you actually do want to get to the bottom of the matter, you’re going to have to agree to let me be who I am.”

“And that is?”

“A cop.”

FLEET STREET CITY OF LONDON

Barbara Havers chose a pub near Fleet Street, one of the watering holes that had long ago been a gathering place for journalists in the heyday of the newspaper business when nearly every tabloid and broadsheet had its headquarters in the immediate vicinity. Things had changed, with property in the Canary Wharf area luring more than one news organisation to the east end of the city. But not all had heeded that siren call of lower rents, and one in particular had stubbornly remained, determined to be close to the action. That was The Source, and Barbara was waiting for her source at The Source to show up. She’d phoned and asked him for a meeting. He’d been reluctant till she let him set the time and offered lunch. He’d still been reluctant till she mentioned Lynley. That got his attention. He asked, “How is he?” and Barbara could tell the reporter was hoping for something suitable to whet the readers’ appetite in the Recovery from Personal Tragedy department. It wouldn’t make the front page, but he could hope for page 3 plus photos, if the details were good.

She’d said, “I’m not prepared to say a word about a word over the phone. C’n you meet?”

That had done the trick. She hated to use Lynley that way — she hated to use him any way if it came down to it — but as he himself was the one who was asking her for information, she reckoned she was on the safe side of what was appropriate between friends.

Isabelle Ardery had been more difficult to deal with. When Barbara phoned to ask for the time off that she was owed, Ardery had been at once suspicious, as her questions of “Why? Where are you going?” indicated. Barbara had known the acting detective superintendent was probably going to be the difficult nail to pound into the board, so she’d had her excuse ready.

“Haircut,” she said. “Or perhaps I should say hairstyle. I’ve found a place in Knightsbridge.”

“So you just need the day,” Ardery had clarified.

“So far,” Barbara replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Sergeant?” There was that suspicion again. The super needed to do something about the sharpness in her voice if she wanted to hide her paranoia, Barbara thought.

She said, “Have some mercy, guv. If I end up looking like last night’s dinner, I’ll have to find someone to repair the damage. I’ll be in touch. I’m owed the time anyway.”

This was no lie, and Ardery knew that. Besides, she herself had been the one to order — in the guise of making a recommendation — an improvement in Barbara’s personal appearance. The superintendent had reluctantly agreed, although she’d added, “No more than two days,” to make certain Barbara knew which one of them was in charge.

On her way to the pub, Barbara had taken care of another of Lynley’s requests. She’d searched out the latest edition of Conception magazine, finding it at King’s Cross Station, where a WH Smith provided every journal imaginable in the railway terminal. That had been convenient since Barbara’s underground