The Truth-Teller's Lie Read Online Free PDF Page A

it, asking if his mother had forced him to invent a fictional country when he was a kid and fill leather-bound notebooks with tales of his made-up land, like the Brontë sisters. The joke hadn’t gone down well. Simon was touchy about his television-free childhood, his parents’ insistence on mind-improving activities.
    Once she’d skim-read what he’d written, Charlie turned her attention to the other set of notes on the table. These had been taken by PC Grace Squires, who had interviewed Naomi Jenkins briefly before passing her on to CID. She’d insisted on speaking to a detective, the notes said. ‘I’ll summarise what I take the situation to be,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re here to report a man missing. Robert Haworth. He’s been your lover for the past year?’
    Naomi Jenkins nodded. ‘We met on the twenty-fourth of March 2005. Thursday the twenty-fourth of March.’ Her voice was low-pitched, gravelly.
    ‘Okay.’ Charlie tried to sound firm rather than abrupt. Too much information could be as obstructive as too little, particularly in a straightforward case. It would have been easy to leap to the conclusion that there was no case here at all: plenty of married men left their lovers without adequate explanation. Charlie reminded herself that she had to give it a chance. She couldn’t afford to close her mind against a woman who said she needed help; she’d done that before, and still felt terrible about it, still thought every day about the chilling violence she might have prevented if only she hadn’t leaped to the easiest conclusion.
    Today she would listen properly. Naomi Jenkins looked serious and intelligent. She was certainly alert. Charlie had the impression that she’d have answered the questions before they’d been asked if she could.
    ‘Robert is forty, a lorry driver. He’s married to Juliet Haworth. She doesn’t work. They have no children. You and Robert have been in the habit of meeting every Thursday at the Rawndesley East Services Traveltel, between four o’clock and seven o’clock.’ Charlie looked up. ‘Every Thursday for a year?’
    ‘We haven’t missed one since we started.’ Naomi sat forward and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘And we’re always in room eleven. It’s a regular booking. Robert always pays.’
    Charlie cringed. She could have been imagining it, but it seemed to her that Naomi Jenkins was imitating her—Charlie’s—way of speaking: summarising the facts briskly and efficiently. Trying too hard.
    ‘What do you do if room eleven’s not available?’ asked Simon.
    ‘It always is. They know to expect us now, so they keep it free. They’re never very busy.’
    ‘So last Thursday you set off to meet Mr Haworth as usual, except he didn’t arrive. And he hasn’t been in touch to explain why. His mobile phone’s been switched off and he hasn’t replied to your messages, ’ Charlie summarised. ‘Correct?’
    Naomi nodded.
    ‘That was as far as we got,’ said Simon. Charlie skimmed the rest of his notes. Something caught her eye, struck her as unusual. ‘You’re a sundial-maker?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Naomi. ‘Why is that important?’
    ‘It isn’t. It’s an unusual job, that’s all. You make sundials for people?’
    ‘Yes.’ She looked slightly impatient.
    ‘For . . . companies, or . . . ?’
    ‘The odd company, but usually private individuals with big gardens. A few schools, the odd Oxbridge college.’
    Charlie nodded, thinking that it would be nice to have a sundial for her tiny front yard. Her house had no garden, thank God. Charlie hated the thought of having to mow or prune anything—what a waste of time. She wondered if Naomi did a petite range, like Marks & Spencer.
    ‘Have you phoned Mr Haworth’s home number?’
    ‘My friend Yvon—she’s also my lodger—she phoned last night. His wife, Juliet, answered. She said Robert was in Kent, but his lorry’s parked outside his house.’
    ‘You’ve been there?’ Charlie asked, at