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

with us,’ said Charlie, standing up. Robert Haworth was probably sleeping on a mate’s floor, moaning over a pint at this very moment about how he couldn’t believe he’d been rumbled, the latest in a long line of men to leave his credit-card bill lying around for his wife to find.
    ‘Is that it?’ Naomi snapped. ‘Is that all you can say?’
    ‘Leave it with us,’ Charlie repeated firmly. ‘You’ve been very informative, and we’ll certainly follow it up. As soon as there’s some news, we’ll be in touch. How can we contact you?’
    Naomi tutted, fumbling with her handbag. Her hair fell in front of her eyes and she yanked it behind one ear, hissing an obscenity under her breath. Charlie was impressed: most middle-class people tried not to swear in front of the police, and if they slipped up, they quickly said sorry. Ironic, since most cops swore all the time. Detective Inspector Giles Proust was the only one Charlie knew who didn’t.
    Naomi threw down a business card on the table, as well as a photograph of herself and a man with dark-brown hair and frameless glasses. The lenses were thin rectangles that barely covered his eyes. He was handsome, in a chunky sort of way, and looked as if he was trying to outstare the camera. ‘There! And if you’re not in touch very soon, I will be. What am I supposed to do, sit and twiddle my thumbs, not knowing if Robert’s dead or alive?’
    ‘Assume he’s alive until you’ve good reason to think he isn’t,’ said Charlie dryly. God, this woman was a drama queen. She picked up the business card and frowned. ‘“Silver Brae Luxury Chalets? Proprietor: G. Angilley”?’
    Naomi winced and drew back slightly, shaking her head.
    ‘I thought you made sundials.’
    ‘I gave you the wrong card. Just . . . just . . .’ Naomi rummaged in her bag again, red in the face.
    ‘Did you go to one of these chalets with Mr Haworth?’ Charlie was curious. Nosey, really.
    ‘I told you where I went with Robert, to the Traveltel. Here!’ The card she thrust at Charlie this time was the correct one. There was a colour picture on it of a sundial—a tilted half-sphere of greenish stone with gold Roman numerals and a large gold butterfly wing protruding from the middle. There was a Latin phrase too, in gold letters, but only part of it was visible: ‘ Horas non ’.
    Charlie was impressed. ‘This one of yours?’ she asked.
    ‘No. I wanted my business card to advertise my competitors’ merchandise. ’ Naomi glared at her.
    Okay, so it had been a daft question. Competitors? How many sundial-makers could there be? ‘What’s “ Horas non ”?’
    Naomi sighed, put out by the question. ‘ Horas non numero nisi aestivas . I only count the sunny hours.’ She spoke quickly, as if she wanted to get it over with. Sunny hours made Charlie think of her holiday, and Olivia. She nodded at Simon to wind things up and left the interview room, letting the door bang shut behind her.
    In the corridor, she switched on her phone and pressed the redial button. Thankfully, her sister answered after the second ring.
    ‘Well?’ Olivia said, her mouth full of food. Smoked-salmon and cream-cheese parcels, Charlie guessed. Or a chocolate-filled brioche —something that could be taken out of the packet and eaten without any preparation. Charlie heard no suspense in her sister’s voice as she asked, ‘What new and unsurprising feat of idiocy do you have to report?’
    Charlie laughed convincingly, filing away the unflattering implications of Olivia’s question for inspection at some later date, and launched into her confession.
     
    ‘Gnomons,’ said Simon. ‘Interesting word.’ He had the home page of Naomi Jenkins’ website up on the screen in front of him. The CID room had an abandoned air: papers scattered over unpopulated desks, broken Styrofoam cups on the floor, quiet apart from the faint hum of computers and striplights. There was no sign of Sellers, or Gibbs, the arsehole. DI