Free The Truth-Teller's Lie by Sophie Hannah Page A

tear down the barrier I’ve built between me and the world. I am going to blow my own cover.

4
    4/4/06
    ON HIS WAY to the Haworths’ front door, Simon stopped in front of what he assumed was the window Naomi Jenkins had been looking through when she had her panic attack. The curtains were closed, but there was a small gap between them, through which Simon could see the room Naomi had talked about. She’d been remarkably precise about the detail, he realised. Navy-blue sofa and chair, glass-fronted cabinet, a perplexing number of tacky ornamental houses, a picture of a seedy old man watching a half-dressed boy play the flute—it was all there, exactly as she’d described. Simon saw nothing untoward, nothing that could explain Naomi’s sudden extreme reaction.
    He made his way round to the front door, noticing the untidy garden, which was more of a junk yard than anything else, and pressed the bell, hearing nothing. Were the walls too thick, or was the bell broken? He pressed again, and once more just to be on the safe side. Nothing. He was about to knock when a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Coming!’ in a tone that implied she had not been given a fair chance.
    If Charlie had been here, she would have held up her badge and ID card, ready to greet whoever opened the door. Simon would have had to follow her lead and do the same or he’d have stood out in a way he didn’t like to. Alone, he only showed people his ID if they asked to see it. He felt self-conscious, almost parodic, whipping it out straight away, shoving it in people’s faces as soon as he met them. He felt as if he was acting.
    The woman who stood in front of him with an expectant look on her face was young and attractive, with shoulder-length blond hair, brown eyes and a few faint freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her eyebrows were two thin, perfect arches; she had evidently spent a lot of time doing something to them that must have hurt. To Simon they looked unpleasant and unnatural. He remembered Naomi Jenkins had mentioned a suit. Today Juliet Haworth was wearing black jeans and a thin black V-necked jumper. She smelled of a sharp citrusy perfume.
    ‘Hello?’ she said briskly, making it a question.
    ‘Mrs Juliet Haworth?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Is Robert Haworth in, your husband? I wanted a quick word with him.’
    ‘And you are . . . ?’
    Simon hated introducing himself, hated the sound of his voice saying his own name. It was a hang-up he’d had since school, one he was determined no one would ever get wind of. ‘Detective Constable Simon—’
    Juliet Haworth interrupted him with a loud guffaw. ‘Robert’s away. You’re a policeman? A detective? Bloody hell!’
    ‘Do you know where he is?’
    ‘In Kent, staying with friends.’ She shook her head. ‘Naomi’s reported him missing, hasn’t she? That’s why you’re here.’
    ‘How long’s Mr Haworth been in Kent?’
    ‘A few days. Look, that slut Naomi’s several ciabattas short of a picnic. She’s a bloody—’
    ‘When will he be back?’ Simon interrupted her.
    ‘Next Monday. Do you want me to bring him into the police station? Prove that he’s still alive, that I haven’t clubbed him to death in a jealous rage?’ Juliet Haworth’s mouth twitched. Was she admitting to jealousy, Simon wondered, or mocking the idea?
    ‘It’d be helpful if he could come in and see me when he gets back, yes. Where in Kent is he?’
    ‘Sissinghurst. Do you want the address?’
    ‘That’d be useful, yes.’
    Juliet appeared irritated by his answer. ‘Twenty-two Dunnisher Road,’ she said tersely.
    Simon wrote it down.
    ‘You know that woman’s bonkers? If you’ve met her, you must know. Robert’s been trying to cool things off for months, but she won’t take the hint. In fact, this is good, you turning up like this. I should have been the one to get the police involved, not her. Is there anything I can do to stop her coming here all the time? Can I get an injunction?’
    ‘How many times