A Delicate Truth A Novel

the same. Harry thinks I’m paranoid. Seeing conspiracies under the bed, I am. Fuck that, Mr Bell. I’ve turned over morehouses than Harry’s had bloody breakfasts. It takes one to know one.’
    ‘When did they do this?’
    ‘Fucking yesterday. When d’you think? While we was out cremating Jeb, when else? We’re not talking fucking amateurs. Don’t you want to know what they were looking for?’
    Reaching under the sofa, she drew out a flat brown envelope, unsealed, and pushed it at him.
    Two A4 photographs, matt finish. No borders. Black and white. Poor resolution. Night shots, much enhanced.
    A format to remind Toby of all the fuzzy images he’d ever seen of suspects covertly photographed from across the street: except that these two suspects were dead and lying on a rock, and one of them was a woman in a shredded Arab dress and the other a much-shot child with one leg half off, and the men standing around them were bulked out in combat gear and holding semi-automatics.
    In the first photograph, an unidentifiable standing man, also in combat gear, points his gun at the woman as if about to finish her off.
    In the second, a different man, again in combat gear, kneels on one knee, his weapon beside him, and holds his hands to his face.
    ‘From under where the ship’s stove was, before the buggers stole it,’ Brigid was explaining contemptuously, in answer to a question Toby hadn’t asked. ‘Jeb had fixed a slab of asbestos there. The stove was gone. But the asbestos was still there. The police thought they’d searched the van before they gave it me to clean. But I knew Jeb. They didn’t. And Jeb knew concealment. Those photos had to be in there somewhere, not that he ever showed them to me. He wouldn’t. “I’ve got the proof,” he’d say. “It’s there in black and white except that nobody wants to believe it.” “Proof of what, for fuck’s sake?” I’d say. “Photographstaken at the scene of the crime.” But ask him what the crime was and all you’d get was a dead man’s face.’
    ‘Who was the photographer?’ Toby asked.
    ‘Shorty. His mate. The only one he had left after his mission. The only one as stuck by him after the others had the fear of God put into them. Don, Andy, Shorty – they was all good buddies until Wildlife . Never after. Only Shorty, till him and Jeb had their fight and broke it off.’
    ‘What was the fight about?’
    ‘The same bloody pictures you’re holding in your hand. Jeb was still home then. Sick but managing, like. Then Shorty came to have a word with him, and they had this God-awful fight. Six foot four Shorty is. But Jeb come in from under him, buckled his knees for him, then broke his nose for him on the way down. Textbook it was, and Jeb half his size. You had to admire it.’
    ‘What did he want to talk to Jeb about?’
    ‘Give him back those pictures, that was first. Shorty had been all for showing them around the ministries till then. Even giving them to the press. Then changed his mind.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘They’d bought him. The defence contractors had. Given him a job for life, provided he keeps his stupid mouth shut.’
    ‘Do the defence contractors have a name?’
    ‘There’s a fellow Crispin. Started up this great new company with American money. Red-hot professionals. The shape of tomorrow, according to Shorty. The army could go fuck itself.’
    ‘And according to Jeb?’
    ‘Not professional at all. Carpetbaggers, he called them, and told Shorty he was another. Shorty wanted him to join up with them, if you can believe it. They’d tried to sign Jeb as soon as the mission was over. To shut him up. Now they’d sent Shorty to try again. Brought Jeb a fucking letter of agreement all typed up for him. All he had to do was sign it, give back the photos and jointhe company and the sky was the limit. I could have told Shorty to spare himself the journey and a broken nose, but he wouldn’t have fucking listened. Actually, I hate the bloody man. Thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Had his hands all over me whenever Jeb wasn’t looking. Plus he wrote me a smarmy letter of condolence, enough to vomit.’
    From the drawer that had held the press cuttings she produced a handwritten letter and shoved it at him.
Dear Brigid,
I’m real Sorry to hear bad News regarding Jeb, same as I’m sorry it ended so Bad between us. Jeb was the Best of the Best, he always will be, never mind old squabbles, he’ll always be in my Memory as I know he