Never Tell Read online

  ‘I’m not quite sure where she is, Mrs Miller,’ he answered easily. ‘Perhaps she’s gone up to London for a few days. She often does.’

  ‘Why?’ I wondered who the man driving her silver Porsche had been. I wondered if I dared ask.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ His tone told me I would get no further tonight. He offered us a paper bag over his shoulder. ‘Lemon sherbet?’

  We both declined.

  Silence fell across the car. One thing was certain: I knew for sure I couldn’t do Xav’s story now. However much my appetite was whetted, I had to stay home with the children. I’d sworn for their sake I’d never do anything risky again; motherhood had to come first now, and the atmosphere in the manor didn’t bode well at all.

  Leaning my head against the glass, I watched the tall hedgerows slide by in the dark, listening to the hiss of the tyres on the road. I was sitting beside my husband, but I was lonelier than I ever remembered being before I was married. I felt a strange longing for something I could not describe.

  As we pulled into our drive, James’s mobile rang. ‘Cheers, mate,’ he thanked Danny Callendar as he picked up the call, sliding out of his side. ‘Good news, Liam. New backer in the offing, I do believe.’ My husband disappeared through the studio gate.

  Before I could open it, Danny was already at the door.

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ I insisted quietly, but he held out a hand. Eventually I took it and looked up at him as I jumped down. I found I couldn’t smile.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said. My skin felt like it was burning where his hand touched me. For a split second his hand seemed to linger on mine, and then he was back in the car. I saw a flame through the dark window as he lit his roll-up, and then he was gone.

  THE POST ON SUNDAY,

  DECEMBER 1991

  THE GENTLEMAN’S DIARY:

  UP THE CREEK?

  We hear that Dalziel St John, eldest son of Lord Higham, our current Home Secretary and John Major’s great golfing buddy, has been living it up again of late. We all remember that St John Jnr went somewhat off the rails during his gap year: this kindly columnist will draw a veil over the episode. Suffice it to say that young Dalziel may have taken the ‘high’ in living the high life a little too literally down in North Cornwall’s elitist Rock. Now in his third year at Magdalen College, St John Jnr had apparently worried his parents again during the last summer holidays with talk of dropping out to model for Versace – amongst other ‘keen’ parties (homosexual French designer Gaultier famously called him ‘truly divine inspiration’, the fashion-conscious amongst you might remember). However, under the steadying influence of new girlfriend and sometime Sapphist Lena Holt (this lady is for turning obviously!), daughter of the late Marquis of Gloucester and opera singer Constantia Latzier, all has seemed well for a while: Dalziel has been safely ensconced back at Magdalen finishing his theology degree, after which he is expected to fly straight out to Argentina to manage the family polo farm for a while.

  So could the rumours be true that Dalziel has just this weekend been caught defecating at the altar of Christ Church, the ancient cathedral? Yes you did indeed read correctly: defecating, not desecrating, though some might argue they are one and the same. It may yet turn out to be fortunate that his father is second cousin of the Bishop himself, although my sources tell me both men are very far from amused. Indeed, Lady Higham is so mortified that she has retired to Barbados for a sojourn at the Sandy Lane spa, citing ‘nervous exhaustion’ (something the poor lady has suffered much of, apparently, for one so young).

  We shall, of course, keep our trusty readers posted of further developments – but let us just surmise for now that young Dalziel is well and truly up the creek and in the ‘proverbial’ with his folks …

  ‘Have you seen this?’ James threw the newspaper on the café table, spilling my tea. ‘I can’t believe that rag’s got hold of it.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it.’ I pushed the paper away and finished my poached egg as James sat down. ‘Me and the whole of college. I can’t believe you’d buy that rag, James.’ I was only half joking. I’d been discovering yet more political principles this term. ‘I’m shocked.’

  ‘You’re too liberal for your own good.’ He shook his dark head sorrowfully. ‘Dalziel’s old man did such a wicked job of keeping it quiet. He’s going to go ballistic. White coffee, please, love,’ James winked at the pretty waitress, who tossed her hair and immediately turned her back on him.

  ‘Who’ll go ballistic?’ I mopped up the last of the yolk. ‘Dalziel’s dad?’

  ‘No, stupid. Dalziel.’ James pinched a chip. ‘He’s done a deal with his dad to keep this kind of stuff out of the paper.’

  ‘How can he do that?’ I was intrigued. ‘Keep it out? He’s not God. Or royalty.’ I considered that last statement for a second. ‘Or is he?’

  ‘Not quite, but he’s pretty well connected.’

  ‘I never realised his dad was a lord. Or Home Secretary.’ I wasn’t quite sure whether to be impressed or contemptuous, given that St John Senior was such a dyed-in-the-wool Tory. My new worst enemies.

  ‘Anyway, Lord Higham owns half of Wapping. And,’ James lowered his voice, ‘Dalziel’s got stuff on his dad that would blow the government out of the water – and his dad knows it.’

  ‘God,’ I leaned forward, ‘like what?’ I was really curious now.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, petal.’ James stroked my cheek as the waitress brought the coffee. ‘He’d have my guts for garters if I breathe a word. Let’s just say it’s in Daddy’s interest – Daddy who likes lots of girls – it’s in his interest to cover Dalziel’s tracks. And anyway, he didn’t do it. Dalziel. The shitting thing.’

  I felt inordinately relieved. It seemed so crass somehow; below Dalziel. The young waitress was staring at James’s fingers on my skin and shoved the cup down so hard boiling coffee slopped out, burning my arm.

  ‘Ouch!’ I looked at her reproachfully. She looked vaguely familiar, her hair pulled back tightly from her cross, freckled face.

  ‘Bloody students,’ she muttered, and slammed back into the kitchen.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ I raised an eyebrow at my some-time boyfriend.

  ‘Possibly,’ he grinned. ‘Are you jealous?’

  I thought about it. ‘A little bit,’ I said, truthfully.

  ‘Don’t be. She’s just a skivvy.’

  ‘James!’ I was shocked.

  ‘A bit of rough can be a laugh, I guess.’ He raised his eyebrows at me, all arch. ‘An experience.’

  ‘For God’s sake, James.’ I took the bait. ‘You sound just like him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ I blew gently on my burned skin. ‘Your great lord and master.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ James bristled. ‘I’m my own man.’

  ‘Boy,’ I teased.

  ‘Man. No one tells me what to do.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ James ladled sugar in his coffee, spoons and spoons of it. ‘He’s started talking about us all meeting again, actually.’ He was casual as he stirred his drink.

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach tightened. ‘Why?’

  ‘Not sure. He’s got some grand scheme up his ruffled sleeve. It’ll be a laugh. Just think of last time.’ He winked at me again, rather lasciviously for such a young man. It turned my stomach a bit; I was shocked at my own reaction.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ I muttered. I was still haunted by the vacant look on Huriyyah’s face. The fact she hadn’t really been present despite her body being in the room; the body that had been no more than a piece of meat. The vague rumours I’d heard since that both boys and girls had been lining up to take turns with her.

  ‘Come on,’ James persisted, ‘we’d never have got together if he hadn’t held that party. And it was a laugh, you’ve got to admit.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I smiled weakly.

  We both jumped as Jen knocked on the glass
window, her short hennaed hair blowing upwards in the December wind, cheeks ruddy from cycling.

  ‘Gotta go.’ I gathered my things, relieved suddenly to be leaving the steamy little café. ‘I’ve already paid for mine. See you soon, yeah?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He looked put out. ‘Like when?’

  The bad-tempered little waitress was watching us. I realised with a jolt it was Twiggy from the Hallowe’en do. Instinctively I leaned over to kiss James full on the mouth.

  ‘I’ll be in the college bar later, I think,’ I said. ‘About six.’

  ‘And what shall I tell Dalziel?’ James swung back dangerously on his chair’s back legs.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He’ll want to know who’s in.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I frowned. ‘I’m not that bothered, to be honest, J. I’ve got a lot on. I’ve just had another article actually commissioned for the Cherwell. It’s got to be in by next week.’

  Jen knocked again more urgently, pointing at her watch in elaborate mime.

  ‘I’m going to be late for my seminar.’

  ‘All right, Goody Two-Shoes,’ James taunted.

  I let it go. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Cycling through town, my fingers frozen round my handlebars despite my woolly gloves, my mind kept darting back to Dalziel and how I’d felt when he kissed me that cold winter night, and how I’d felt when I’d watched him kissing that boy. But most of all, to the face of the girl on the divan: how utterly lost she had been.

  Leaving my tutor group later, I realised I’d lost my scarf; on the way home I popped into the café to see if it was there. The sulky waitress was cleaning the coffee machine behind the wooden counter.

  ‘Haven’t seen it,’ she muttered, and I had no choice but to believe her.

  ‘Really fancies himself now, that boyfriend of yours, don’t he?’ she said as I opened the door to leave.

  I paused and turned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You should have seen him last year.’ Her pretty face was flushed. ‘He was like a – a lost puppy and he dressed like a right bloody spod, carrying that stupid guitar everywhere. Only too glad to mix with the likes of me then.’ She wiped the steam pipe so savagely I thought it would snap. ‘Not that I was interested in him.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said rather helplessly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Much better fish in the sea.’ She turned her back on me again before I could read the expression on her face. Her voice was strangely muffled. ‘You’re welcome to him.’

  There wasn’t anything else to say really. I saw her in town a few weeks later with another boy; she was wearing my scarf. I decided she could keep it.

  Chapter Five

  GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008

  The morning after the Kattans’ party, the taxi dropped me at the gates in the overgrown lane. I had a feeling of foreboding that I tried to dispel, but my stomach was churning slightly even before I began the long walk up the drive.

  Last night it had been my turn to lie awake, sleepless beside a snoring James, recalling events I had blocked for years. And as I stared into the darkness, craving sleep and peace, I couldn’t understand why all these events were conspiring to meet now. But whatever the reason, the past seemed to be travelling inexorably towards me – and there was nowhere to hide. All night I’d pondered the portrait in the bedroom, until finally I’d decided that James was right: that I’d been mistaken: that one sloe-eyed beauty might look rather like another. But still I couldn’t quite push Huriyyah’s face from my mind.

  The gravel crunched satisfyingly underfoot as I set off, my hand clasped round the car keys in my fleece pocket. In the past few weeks the earth had yawned mightily and begun to waken, and I was flanked now by creamy yellow daffodils that flickered lightly in the breeze, the great glossy camellias behind them festooned with buds as big as my fist. The temperature at night was still close to freezing, but this morning had dawned fresh and bright – a mismatch for my sense of apprehension. I intended to fetch the car and leave the property as quickly as I could.

  My phone rang. Xavier.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Fetching my car from Hadi Kattan’s house in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘You got in there then? Good girl.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And now I’m getting out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not for me, Xav.’

  ‘Don’t be a pussy, Rose.’

  ‘I’m not. Like I said, I’m flattered, and I think you should follow it up – but you need to get someone else to do it.’

  ‘But you’re in already. I’ve got more juicy stuff coming through; rumours that Kattan may have financed a trainingcamp from his home in Tehran. Plus he’s been the subject of a CIA investigation.’

  ‘Really?’ I thought of the man last night at the party, of the helicopter, of the hysterical and now apparently missing daughter.

  Detecting my hesitation, Xav pounced. ‘Come on, Rose.’

  ‘I’ve already been warned off by his laconic idiot of a driver.’

  ‘A nice bit of rough? Right up your street.’

  ‘Up yours, you mean.’

  ‘Darling! All those coarse farmers are having a terrible effect on you.’

  I thought of Hadi Kattan’s firm handshake and the way he held back from the rest of the crowd; the assurance in his stance. ‘Kattan’s much more my type.’ For all his inherent sexism, no man had smiled at me like that for years.

  ‘You’re a happily married woman, let me remind you, Rosie.’

  A sudden breeze sent a flurry of blossom skittering before my

  feet.

  ‘Not sure about the happily bit right now,’ I muttered.

  ‘At last she’s seen the light,’ Xavier drawled. He’d never bothered to hide his feelings about James.

  The blossom whirled in circles on the ground before me.

  ‘Anyway, Kattan’s certainly a character. Very old-school polite, but a will of iron, I’m sure. And his son, Ash, is apparently disenchanted with Britain, and running for Parliament.’ I was rounding the last bend in the drive now, heading towards a stable block and garages on my right, walking into shadow beneath great elms that blocked the sun from my path. The gargoyles on the roof were still screaming silently as I neared. I had the unnerving feeling that I was being watched and I felt a shiver of apprehension. ‘But I’m sorry, I just can’t do it, Xav.’

  ‘Fuck, Rose,’ Xav swore softly. ‘It’s not like you to wimp out.’

  The great windows of the Gothic manor frowned down like huge unblinking eyes, and then something stopped me in my tracks. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d seen but it was like a flash of light, something white billowing in the window to the left of the great front door. Somewhere nearby the clank of metal on metal startled me. My own involuntary gasp made me laugh.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’ I hung up.

  ‘Hello?’ I called. Someone had been listening, I was sure.

  Silence fell again; just the fluting of birdsong, and then the distant bleat of tiny lambs. It was an eerie sound; rather like my children crying. I took a few small steps towards an old cream-coloured racing car abandoned on blocks. Alongside the garage wall were stacked great canisters; presumably for petrol.

  ‘Hello?’ I steadied my voice. ‘Anyone there?’

  There was no response. A sudden gust blew through the branches like a great breath as I took another step and then the light from the window struck me again, flashing across my face so I had to shut my eyes. Not a light I realised, some kind of red laser. It swept the ground before me and then disappeared.

  I contemplated turning back – and then I heard the metallic sound again.

  ‘Hello?’ I repeated, awash with adrenalin – and then Danny Callendar emerged from the garage, rolling a cigarette.

  ‘You really made me jump.’ I tried to stifle my nerves. Wood smoke hung in the air like a distant
warning. Like an exhaled sigh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said easily, and licked the cigarette paper. ‘Can I help?’

  I smiled politely. ‘I’ve just come to collect my car.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Callendar looked down to light his roll-up, then up again as he inhaled. ‘It’s still up at the house.’

  He was so abrupt, it seemed peculiar after last night. So abrupt he was rude. I regarded him for a second. His eyes were uncomfortably blue, piercing even; his skin looked like it had suffered too many summers under hot sun. It was hard to place his age; somewhere in his mid-thirties, I’d guess; a year or two younger than me, perhaps.

  ‘What exactly is it that you do here?’ A sudden gust whipped my key-ring hard against my wrist. ‘Ow.’ I dropped the keys.

  He bent down to retrieve them, handing the ring to me. ‘Who wants to know?’ His skin was hard and calloused, oil beneath his nails.

  ‘Me, obviously.’ What a stupid thing to say. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘I drive for Mr Kattan.’ He took another drag, eyes squinting against sun and smoke. He had nice hands, I thought absently. Long elegant fingers, despite the filthy nails. ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘What kind of other things?’

  ‘This and that, Mrs Miller, this and that.’ He leaned against the old car.

  ‘And is Mr Kattan here?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘I see.’ I tried another smile. ‘Does he have many visitors?’ Danny Callendar laughed – but he was laughing at me, that was clear. ‘What’s it to you, honey?’

  ‘I’m meant to be writing a piece on him for the local paper. Just interested. Professionally, you know.’

  ‘Well, professionally,’ he removed a bit of tobacco from his tongue, ‘he has a few.’

  ‘Right.’ I was tired of smiling to no avail. ‘So I’ll just make my own way up to the house, shall I?’

  His expression was unreadable. ‘Were you expecting a lift?’

  We stared at each other for a moment. A huge chestnut hunter whickered softly at the fence nearby.

  ‘Beautiful horse.’