Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [223]
“Let me help you from a distance. I’m happy to do that.”
For an insane moment, Zed thought she was actually suggesting phone sex, and in his present state, that would have been a welcome diversion. But then she said, “Are you close to the information you need? You must be worried about the story.”
That brought him round, cold water on his ardour. He said with a groan, “That bloody story.” He told her where he was with it. He told her everything, as he’d been doing all along. And as she’d been doing all along, she listened. He concluded with, “So there’s sod-all to report on. I could massage the facts and write that Scotland Yard’s up here investigating Nick Fairclough due to the untimely and suspicious death of his cousin, who happened to hold the purse strings of Fairclough Industries, and we all know what that means, don’t we, gentle readers? But the truth of the matter happens to be that Scotland Yard look like they’re investigating Alatea Fairclough and getting about as far with her as I’ve got with her husband. We’re in the same position, the Met and I. The only difference is this detective can toddle back to London and give the high-ups the all-clear, but if I return without a story, I’m done for.” He heard his tone as he concluded and he said hastily, “Sorry. I’m whingeing a bit.”
“Zed, you can whinge all you need to.”
“Ta, Yaf. You’re… well you’re just how you are.”
He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Thank you, I think. Now let us put our heads together. When one door closes, another opens.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning perhaps it’s time you did what you were intended to do. You’re a poet, Zed, not a tabloid journalist. Remaining one is going to bleed your soul of its creative power. It’s time for you to write your poetry.”
“No one supports himself on his poetry.” Zed laughed self-derisively. “Look at me. I’m twenty-five years old and I’m living with my mum. I can’t even support myself as a reporter, for the love of God.”
“Ah, Zed. Don’t talk this way. You need only someone to believe in you. I believe in you.”
“Bloody lot of good that does me. You’re going back to Tel Aviv.”
There was a silence at the other end. Into it came the indication of another phone call to Zed’s mobile. He said, “Yaffa? You still there?”
“Oh yes. I’m here,” she said.
The other call was insistent. Rodney, probably. It was close to the time he had to face the music. He said, “Yaffa, I’ve got another call. I probably should— ”
“I don’t have to,” she said quickly. “I don’t even need to. You think about that, Zed.” Then she rang off.
For a moment he stared at nothing at all. Then he took the other call.
It was the Scotland Yard detective. She said, “I’m going to speak to this woman in Lancaster again. There’s more here than meets the eye. It’s time you and I worked together to twist her arm.”
BARROW-IN-FURNESS AND GRANGE-OVER-SANDS
CUMBRIA
One of the last people Manette expected to see turn up on the premises of Fairclough Industries was Kaveh Mehran. As far as she could recall, he’d never been there before. Ian had certainly never taken him round for formal introductions, and Kaveh hadn’t come on his own expecting to be introduced. Nearly everyone knew, of course, that Ian had walked out on his marriage because of a young man. But that was the extent of it. So when Kaveh was shown into her office, she blinked in confusion before she realised he’d probably come to collect Ian’s personal belongings. It needed to be done and no one had yet thought about doing it.
His reason for showing up at the firm, however, turned out to be somewhat different. Tim was missing. He’d jumped out of Kaveh’s car on the previous morning on the way to school, and he’d not returned home last night.
Manette said, “Did something happen? Why did he jump out of your car? Did he go to school? Did you phone the school?”
The school, Kaveh said, had phoned the house yesterday. Tim was absent, and when one of the day pupils didn’t turn up, the school rang the home because… well, because of the sort of school it was,