Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [171]
Vivienne wasn’t a fool. She knew it was going to be information in exchange for Barbara’s departure. She went to a small sofa and sat. She said, “I worked for a time for Fairclough Industries, as you’ve noted. I was Bernard Fairclough’s executive assistant. It was my first job straight after the London School of Economics. After several years, I went on to other employment.”
“Your type generally move round in the employment game,” Barbara acknowledged. “I get that. But in your case, it was Fairclough Industries, a spate of private consulting, and then this current gig you have with the gardening concern and there you’ve stayed.”
“What of it? I wanted more job security than private consultancy offers, and once I went to Precision Gardening, I had it. I climbed the ladder there, the right person in the right place during a period of time when it was important to demonstrate equity in employment between men and women. I hardly started as managing director, Sergeant.”
“But you didn’t cut your ties with Fairclough.”
“I don’t burn bridges. I find it wise to maintain contacts. Bernard asked me to serve on the board of the Fairclough Foundation. I was happy to do so.”
“How’d that come about?”
“What do you mean? Are you looking for something sinister? He asked me and I said yes. I believe in the cause.”
“And he asked you because…”
“I assume he thought my work for him in Barrow was competent and reflective of a willingness to be useful in other ways as well. When I left Fairclough Industries— ”
“Why?”
“Why did I leave?”
“Seems to me you could’ve climbed the career ladder there as well as anywhere else.”
“Have you spent much time in Barrow, Sergeant Havers? No? Well, it didn’t appeal. I had the opportunity to come to London and I took it. That’s what people do. I had the kind of offer of employment that might have taken years to get in Barrow, even if I’d wanted to stay there, which, believe me, I did not.”
“And here you are, then, in Lord Fairclough’s flat.”
Vivienne altered her position slightly, her posture— which had seemed perfect in the first place— managing to become even more so. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re misinformed.”
“Fairclough doesn’t own this flat? Why’s he got his own key, then? I reckoned he was showing up to check you weren’t rubbishing the place. Doing the landlord bit, if you know what I mean.”
“What does any of this have to do with Ian Cresswell, the ostensible reason for your call?”
“Not sure yet,” Barbara said cheerfully. “Want to explain the situation with the keys? Especially since Fairclough doesn’t, as I’d thought, own this place. Which’s quite nice, by the way. Must’ve cost you a pile of dosh. You’d want to keep it all safe and secure, I’d think. So I’m wondering if you hand out keys willy-nilly or if you only give them to special sorts of people.”
“I’m afraid that’s none of your business.”
“Where’s our Bernard stay when he comes to London, Miss Tully? Or I s’pose I should say Ms. eh? I checked at Twins, but they don’t have overnighters there, it seems. Also, they don’t allow women past the threshold aside from the old bag on door duty— believe me, I found that out straightaway— unless they’re in the company of a member. Turns out you’re in and out all the time on Fairclough’s arm, the way I heard it. Lunch, dinner, drinks, whatever, and off the two of you go by taxi and the taxi always brings you here. Sometimes you unlock the front door. Sometimes he does, with his own key. Then up you come to this… well let me say it’s a bloody gorgeous place… and after that… Where does Fairclough stow his ageing body when he’s in London? That’s the real question.”
Vivienne rose. She would need to, Barbara reckoned. It was close to the point where the other woman would do the ceremonious tossing of her rotund body out of the front door. Meantime, Barbara meant to push things as far as she could. She saw that Vivienne’s entire composure was heading in a southerly direction, and this gratified her enormously. There was, after all, a certain selfish thrill in discommoding someone so ostensibly