‘But you believe there’s a link?’
‘Yes, sir. We’re checking out a series of IP locations. In the Winchester and Guildford areas. Trying to establish links.’
‘Guildford? That’s conveniently close to your home territory, isn’t it, Barnes?’
‘Yes, sir, very conveniently close.’
‘And you are continuing to maintain your cover? The teaching post?’
‘For the time being, sir, yes. It’s as good a place as any to investigate cybercrime and sociopaths. And although, unsurprisingly, the movement of foreign staff and students into the UK has not proven to be the significant trafficking route anticipated by some amongst us, there is a healthy air of sedition to keep me occupied.’
‘Quite so. Well, Barnes, liaise with forensics and keep me informed. And keep as much of this out of the press as possible. Preferably all of it. Has the individual who discovered the body been briefed?’
‘Briefed and debriefed, sir.’
For everything there is a single truth but many non-truths. The phoney, the fabulist, to be successful, must recall with absolute certainty which of these non-truths has been substituted as truth. A liar with a poor memory is doomed to failure.
From A Natural History of Lies by J. Clarke
1
Sophie was happy with things the way they were. Mostly. But there was one exception. She wished there was a garden at the front of her house, an any-shaped outcrop of nature that distanced her from the world outside. But there was no such thing. Instead, Sophie’s front door opened directly onto the street, which, apart from denying her a garden, guaranteed a constant stream of daytime passers-by staring into her lounge as if her life was a display in a department store. And there were steps, two steps that led from her front door down onto the pavement. It was almost impossible to single-handedly manoeuvre the pram in and out of the house. And when Laura got a little older it would be a worry: the steps and the main road being that close. Sophie fretted about it, but Jonah was not that bothered, probably because men don’t concern themselves with such issues. They have other things to worry about; as far as Jonah was concerned, child safety fell within the mother’s domain.
In the early days, Sophie had made a few attempts at threshold horticulture: potted bay trees either side of the steps; snowdrops, crocus corms and thyme eased into the mean promises of soil between the bricks and paving stones. But, invariably, they had been vandalised. Even stolen. And, anyway, Jonah had disapproved of the scent of thyme and bay wafting in from the street and ravaging his home. Jonah had also disapproved of the scent of cinnamon, curry plant, garlic, cloves and cardamom, lavender, baby wipes, dishwasher tablets, peppermint and cabbage. But Sophie understood: people smell things differently. So that was that.
Sophie did have a small concrete garden at the back of her house. Its measly dimensions owed to the fact that, at some point in the distant past, priority had been given to the construction of a line of flat-roofed garages, which had reversed, windowless, into the existing row of Victorian properties, leaving their terraced residents with a diminishing display of disappointing rears. As always, Sophie had rallied. Despite this horticultural privation, she had accumulated a vast array of terracotta pots, which she had squashed into every opportunity in the vestige of backyard that nestled beyond her kitchen window. Throughout the year, she religiously cultivated a rich, potted, non-aromatic, shade-loving flora, supplemented in the summer months with a dozen or so tomato plants and a few etiolated sunflowers that cast even more shadow upon her dank little garden. Even at the height of summer, the damp cement, the terracotta pots, the sunflowers and the tomatoes encouraged the growth of moss and algae. Sophie loved the green and blue tenacity of these lowly plants, although Jonah always referred to their lush colonisation as mildew.
All things considered, Sophie hated the front of her house and, if the truth be known, she would have rather lived somewhere else. But all requests for relocation were denied. As far as Jonah was concerned, they could not move from their small, cramped, terraced house to a bigger house with a proper garden, where Laura would eventually be able to run and play, because they did not have enough money to better themselves after Sophie’s unplanned pregnancy. Sophie couldn’t really argue with that; she could have been more cautious. But some innate awareness of the proximity of her thirties, and of her declining reproductive opportunity, had encouraged laxity. The pregnancy was definitely her fault. So, that was that.
* * *
It was twelve thirty, early-August. With the washing loaded and Laura enjoying her morning nap, Sophie had just started tending her pots. She was engrossed in snipping axillary shoots from her tomato plants, when she heard the front door open and close. She stepped into the kitchen to investigate. Jonah was in the dark passageway, puffing and cursing and removing the large suitcase from the cupboard under the stairs. She kicked off her gardening shoes and approached him, the kitchen scissors in one hand and a posy of tomato shoots in the other. ‘Why are you home,’ she asked. ‘I thought you were in Bournemouth today. Are you going somewhere?’
He did not look up. ‘I’m leaving,’ he mumbled.
‘What do you mean, you’re leaving?’
‘I’ll come for the rest of my things tomorrow.’
‘What things? What are you talking about?’
He balanced the case upright and met her eyes. ‘There’s no way this is good for either of us.’
Sophie clenched and unclenched her hands, an activity which caused the tomato posy to disintegrate and the scissors to spin onto the floor and come to rest beneath a radiator. She grappled for words. ‘But, what about Laura?’
Jonah recoiled from the pungent smell of crushed tomato leaves, the cocktail of alkaloids loved by some, unloved by others and loathed by Jonah. ‘The longer this goes on the worse it will be for her. I’ll send money.’
Sophie fell back against the wall, wiped her hands down her jeans. ‘Money? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s happened?’
Jonah turned away and started to haul the suitcase up the stairs, crashing it against the slim spindles with all the disregard of a person who no longer owned them. Sophie hurried after him.
‘Jonah, you’ll wake Laura. Tell me what’s happened. We can talk about it.’
They did not talk about it. Sophie asked him where he was going, if she would be able to contact him. What if something happened to Laura? Jonah said nothing. Sophie repeated her questions. Several times. But still Jonah said nothing. So, Sophie became silent, stunned, forced to stand and watch Jonah coldly and methodically arrange his clothes into the case: jeans, socks, shirts, boxers still in their presentation pack. The Arran jumper her mother had given him the Christmas before she died. Finally, he crushed three pairs of shoes, his library book and his phone charger into the top section, then tried to force the latches closed. That was never going to happen. So, he opened the case, pulled out the Arran jumper and, with this removed, secured the latches. Eyes down, he edged past Sophie into the en-suite and emerged moments later carrying his washbag, grabbed the handle of his case and made to leave.
Sophie threw herself in front of the door to prevent him doing so and, her voice trembling with suppressed tears, asked him again where he was going.