Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [229]
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.