Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [244]
Or perhaps it was all about the money that was going to be paid to Lucy Keverne? With Nick’s history, wasn’t it possible that he was selling a little something on the side— other than toilets— to collect enough money to pay the woman? Could the doctors be on the take as well? That was another possibility.
By the time Zed had finished his double order of haddock and chips, he’d reached the conclusion that the best angle from which to write the tawdry tale of buying a baby-making machine— which was how he was going to sell it to Rodney— was to begin with Nick Fairclough. His reasoning behind this was simple enough. He knew human nature, perhaps not perfectly but well enough. And what he knew about human nature told him that the moment he and the Scotland Yard detective had left Lucy Keverne, she’d picked up the phone to ring Alatea Fairclough and to let her know the worst.
That left him with Nick and putting a little pressure on him for the real tale behind the deal with the woman in Lancaster.
He gathered up his copy of The Source and returned to his car. He glanced at his watch and saw from the time of day that Nicholas Fairclough would probably be at the Middlebarrow Pele Project. So to the pele project Zed would go.
His route took him past the Crow and Eagle and onto the route that led to Arnside. He zipped alongside Milnthorpe Sands, which were indeed sands at the moment— albeit soupy ones— because the tide was gone as if it had never been, leaving the River Kent a narrow gleam of water at the edge of which curlews, plovers, and redshanks high-stepped in their endless search for food. Beyond, from the direction of Humphrey Head, the fog was beginning to creep towards the shore. The mist was heavy, and the air was laden. Moisture clung to cottage windows and dripped from trees. The road was wet and slick.
At the pele project, Zed parked not far from the tower itself. He saw no one working at present. But when he got out of the car into the damp air, he heard at once a burst of raucous male laughter, and he followed this to its source, which turned out to be the dining tent. Within, all of the men were gathered. They sat at the tables, but they were not eating. Their attention was fixed on an older bloke who stood before them in a posture of ease, with one foot up on a chair and his elbow resting on his knee. He appeared to be telling the others some sort of tale. The others appeared to be enjoying it mightily. They were also enjoying cups of coffee and tea, and their cigarette smoke made the atmosphere eye stinging.
Zed clocked Nick Fairclough at the same instant that Nick Fairclough clocked him. He’d been sitting at the far side of the tent, his chair tipped back and his feet on the tabletop, but he dropped the chair legs to the ground as his eyes met Zed’s. He came rapidly over to the tent’s entrance.
He took Zed by the arm and directed him outside. He said, “It’s not an open meeting,” and he didn’t sound particularly friendly about it. At this Zed concluded that he’d witnessed a bit of what kept the men on the straight and narrow: Alcoholics Anonymous, Jonesing Johnnies United, Hogs for Hope, or whatever it was. He also concluded that he wasn’t going to be welcomed back into Nicholas Fairclough’s life with open arms. Well, that couldn’t be helped.
“I’d like a word,” Zed said to him.
Fairclough tilted his head towards the tent, replying, “I’ve a meeting, as you saw. It’ll have to wait.”
“Don’t think that’s possible, actually.” Zed took out his notebook to underscore the declaration.
Fairclough’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this about?”
“Lucy Keverne.”
“Who?”
“Lucy Keverne. Or perhaps you know her by another name? She’s the surrogate you and your wife are employing.”
Fairclough stared at him and Zed recognised immediately what the look on the other man’s face was telling him. The expression itself said, Are you mad? The reason for the question, however, had nothing whatsoever to do with madness.
“Surrogate?” Fairclough