by Jessie Keane
‘You’ve never looked so beautiful,’ said Ruby, feeling tears sting her eyes.
The planner, a manic smile fixed to her face, heard movement outside and rushed to the window. ‘Oh, the car’s here. How about a picture? We’ve still got time. You both looking in the mirror? The photographer’s still downstairs.’
‘No pictures. Not now,’ said Ruby firmly, her eyes meeting Daisy’s. The rest of the day would be hectic and noisy, they would be on show. This moment was theirs alone, private and peaceful, mother and daughter.
Already they could hear Matthew and Luke downstairs, all dressed up and ready to go in their pageboy outfits, shrieking and running around, giving poor Nanny Jody hell. Matthew would be throwing off his purple velvet bow tie and waistcoat. Mattie was an extrovert and loved to shed his clothes at every opportunity. Luke liked to undress behind the furniture.
Ruby looked at her gorgeous daughter and said: ‘No doubts? You’re sure about this? One hundred per cent sure?’
Daisy smiled. ‘Dead sure,’ she said.
‘Right then. We’re on.’ Ruby reached up and pulled the veil down over Daisy’s face. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said, and caught Daisy’s hand in hers. Ruby blinked hard, gulping back an emotional tear. ‘Your public awaits.’
The Rolls Royce Silver Ghost purred through the streets, the uniformed chauffeur smoothly guiding the car. It was only a short drive to the church, and they could hear the bells pealing before they’d even come close. When they arrived and the chauffeur opened the door for Daisy while Ruby exited from the other side, the joyous sound of the bells being rung was almost deafening.
The photographer – a nervy little chap with crinkly brown hair, assisted by a dumpy woman who looked like his wife – took a photo of Daisy emerging from the car, then of Ruby and Daisy beside the car. Finally he posed them in front of one of the vast yews to the side of the path leading up to the church and took more shots – one full-length, the other three-quarters.
As the vicar came out from the church door they saw Jody in her best dress holding on to Matthew and Luke, who were shouting and twisting like a pair of dervishes. Mattie’s bow tie was missing. No surprises there. As they saw Daisy coming closer, the twins started bawling for her. Daisy blew them a kiss and made a firm ‘keep the noise down’ gesture, which they ignored.
The vicar shook Ruby’s hand, greeted Daisy. Jody ushered the twins inside, and the vicar ushered Daisy and Ruby into the church.
‘I’ll signal,’ he said, and hurried off to the high altar.
Daisy looked at the crowd gathered inside the church. Cream roses and matching satin ribbons decorated the end of every pew. She could see Lady Vanessa Bray, who’d raised her until she’d been reunited with Ruby, staring across the aisle at Rob’s mother Eunice.
Daisy frowned at that. Vanessa was a terrible snob, and the Hintons were common folk. Eunice was saying something to her youngest son, Leon, who was today sharing ushering duties with the middle son, Daniel. She saw Leon listening, stony-faced, then he quickly moved away.
Eunice’s face was a picture of hurt, and Daisy felt for her. Rob always said that Leon was a gobshite and unrelentingly nasty to their mother.
God, families!
All right, Eunice was tarty and she tended to dress that way. Her skirt today was a bit too short, the matching shell-pink top she wore a little too plunging at the neckline. But Daisy hoped that Vanessa was going to be polite. She didn’t want anything to spoil this day.
Her eyes moved on, and she could see Kit up at the front, and there was Rob. He was looking back. He saw her standing there, and smiled. Then the organ started to play, the vicar raised a hand. Everyone inside the church rose to their feet. Ruby and Daisy walked up the aisle to ‘Here Comes the Bride’.
20
The killer had watched the guests arriving and filing inside the church opposite, all of them dressed up to the nines, smiling, chatting. Big, happy day for them. Payoff day for him, the culmination of two long, boring weeks. Now it was showtime.
At twelve noon the bride arrived with her mother. He saw the vicar greeting them, watched them go inside. He settled back, lined up the gun so that the sights were smack on the door area. Still no wind; that was good. Nothing to compensate for. Forty minutes, he reckoned. He’d watched a couple of weddings here last week to be sure, and forty minutes was the usual time. He relaxed. He waited.
It was such a beautiful wedding. Everyone said so, afterwards. The bride had been heartbreakingly lovely. The groom so handsome. It was obvious how deeply in love they were.
It’s just so tragic, they all kept saying. So awful.
Hymns were sung, prayers offered up. The register was signed, and Daisy and Rob emerged from the vestry and walked back down the aisle as husband and wife, while the photographer set up his tripod outside the church door. The happy couple were smiling at people they knew as they passed by, Ruby and Kit following close behind them, Jody tugging Daisy’s twins along in their wake as Daniel and Leon, and all the guests followed on. Chatting, kissing, Daisy and Rob stepped into bright, spring sunlight, dazzled and blinking after the cool dark of the church.
A perfect day.
But then the killer fired.
And down in the churchyard, hell opened up.
21
The bells were ringing, clanging in Ruby’s head. Everyone was talking, laughing. Confetti was flying, floating down in the still air, masking the happy couple in fluttering pinks and blues and yellows. Daisy was laughing; bits of the stuff were falling down the front of her dress. Rob’s treacle-blond hair was peppered with it.
No one heard the shots. All that happened was that suddenly the photographer pitched forward, knocking over his tripod, smashing the Rolleiflex camera perched on it to smithereens.
The photographer’s wife let out a cry and flung herself down beside her fallen husband.
Smiles dropped from faces. Had he suffered a heart attack? Ruby looked at Daisy, but Daisy, who was clinging on to Rob’s arm, was pitching forward too, falling to her knees. Ruby’s mouth fell open. Her eyes moved to Kit. Time seemed to stand still as she stared at his face, which was frozen in disbelief. There was blood on the back of the photographer’s camel-coloured jacket, high up on the right shoulder. His wife stared at it – and then she started to shriek.
Kit was looking around. Left. Right. Ruby saw his eyes fasten on the building opposite. A glint of something, there? She wasn’t sure. Kit was reaching for her, shoving her roughly to the ground.
‘Down!’ he shouted as she stumbled and fell. ‘Everybody down! Gun! GUN!’
Now there was more screaming and the bells were still ringing. Everyone scattering, diving for cover. Ruby, scrabbling on the ground, all the wind knocked out of her by the force of Kit’s push, her knees grazed, her heart beating madly, thought, Oh shit! The twins!
She looked around frantically, couldn’t see them. Then she glimpsed Jody’s yellow and blue floral dress inside the church door. Jody had them. They were safe.
‘Stay down!’ Kit shouted, and in the midst of chaos, screaming, mass hysteria, he was off. Leaving them. Running away.
‘Kit!’ Ruby yelled after him.
But he didn’t stop.
22
Kit was sprinting full pelt. He charged through the doorway of the Georgian building opposite. People passed him, stopping to stare, but he paid them no attention. He shot up the stairs, thinking, My sister’s wedding. Whoever did this is dead.
He thought it was the first floor. One of the windows on the right.
There had been a glint there, a flash. He was sure.
The bells were still ringing and he was running up, up, up, and now he was on the landing and it forked; there was a line of doors. Which one?
Christ knew.
He was sweating and the blood was thrumming crazily in his ears. He tried the first one. Locked. He raised a fist, hammered at it. Couldn’t wait. Took a step back, kicked it open.
&n
bsp; A little grey-haired woman was crossing her carpeted living-room, staring at him in terror. ‘What are you—?’
He didn’t wait. He went to the next door, tried it. Locked again. No time for niceties. He stepped back, kicked out. It juddered open. He peered in, expecting the pile-driver force of a bullet to stop him in his tracks at any moment. But the place looked empty. He carried on into the flat. The fucking bells were still ringing. He moved into the living room. There was a mangy old Chesterfield sofa, a threadbare rug. A fireplace. He went over to it and hefted the poker lying there into his hand. Looked around him, feeling his flesh creeping but too mad, too enraged, to feel fear.
Moving more stealthily now, he looked at the sash window, open; the church clearly visible. He pushed the entrance door to the flat closed and moved along the interior hallway. Trod carefully into a bedroom, then a bathroom. Nothing. He moved back to the living room. Went over to the window and looked at the floor. Three spent shells there. He picked one up, put it in his pocket. He sniffed the air and smelled cordite.
Across the road he could see the chaos in front of the church. He could hear the bells and the screaming. People panicking, running.
He turned and left the flat, went back to where he’d ruined the old lady’s door. Pushed it open. She was there, mouth open, face white. She was trembling and her eyes were fastened on the poker in his hand. Kit dropped that hand behind him, held up his free hand in a calming gesture.
‘It’s OK. You’re OK,’ he said quickly. His mouth was dry as ashes. He had to swallow to get the next sentence out as adrenaline pumped furiously through his veins. ‘Fire escape?’
She said nothing. With a quivering hand, she pointed to the left.
Kit pulled the door shut again and moved off along the hall. At the end of it was a solid fire door. He depressed the bar handle and shoved it open. Stepped out onto a metal stairway, his feet clattering on the thing. A gusting breeze lifted as he stared down the flimsy-looking zigzagging metal structure to the cobbles below at the back of the building. Bins down there. A few cars, parked up. No movement.
Nothing. If there had been a shooter here, he was gone.
‘Fuck it,’ said Kit loudly.
He went back to the shooter’s flat, wiping the poker as he went. He replaced it. Then he went back down the stairs and out of the building.
23
It was still madness outside the church. The vicar had come out, seen what was happening, gone back inside. Suddenly, the bells fell silent.
The photographer’s wife had stopped screaming. Now she was kneeling, crying hysterically, staring down at her fallen husband. There were people staggering about among the gravestones, people crawling back to their feet, their faces blank with shock. Ruby was still on her knees. When she saw Kit coming back, she stood up. As he came hurrying up the church path he saw that her tights were torn and there was blood snaking down from her knee to her calf.
‘You all right?’ he asked her.
She nodded. She was looking at the photographer, lying face down on the gravel. ‘Christ . . .’ she moved forward to help him. Daisy blocked her path.
‘Are you all right?’ Ruby asked her, clasping her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. Then she stopped. Froze. Saw the blood on the front of Daisy’s dress. Daisy’s bouquet was on the ground, mangled by the panicked footfall of her guests. Her eyes were dazed.
‘Oh God!’ Ruby burst out. ‘Where are you hit? Where?’
Daisy lurched sideways and sagged against the church wall. She seemed unable to speak. Kit hurried to her; he could see she was about to collapse.
‘Daisy! Where are you hurt?’ he said urgently, slipping an arm around her, holding her upright.
She was shaking her head. Pointing with a trembling hand.
‘Rob,’ she whispered.
Kit and Ruby looked for Rob. He was on the ground.
‘What the f—’ Kit looked around for Fats. ‘Fats! Here!’
Fats came over, white-faced. ‘Boss?’
‘Hold on to Daisy. Stay with her.’
Kit moved away from his sister and flung himself down beside his best mate. There was blood on the front left of Rob’s jacket, just above the cream rose buttonhole he wore. The rose was delicately spattered with red. His face was very pale, his eyes closed. Kit stared at him in horrified disbelief.
‘No, no no . . .’ he muttered, thinking the blood was Rob’s, it wasn’t Daisy’s at all.
‘Ambulance!’ he shouted at anyone who would listen. ‘Phone for an ambulance, someone! Hurry!’
‘Done,’ said a voice from the crowd. ‘It’s on its way.’
With a shaking hand, Kit placed his fingertips against Rob’s neck. For one terrifying instant there was nothing. Then he felt a fluttering, stumbling pulse. He took out a handkerchief and applied firm pressure to the wound. Didn’t dare do CPR, he was afraid that would only cause more damage. He looked up desperately at Ruby, standing there with Fats and a stricken Daisy.
‘Hold this,’ he said, and Ruby knelt down and held the handkerchief to Rob’s chest while Kit stripped off his jacket. Taking back the handkerchief, which was now soaked red, he reapplied pressure to the wound and laid his jacket over Rob to keep him warm.
‘Don’t you fucking dare leave me, you silly cunt,’ he told Rob. His voice shook. ‘Not today of all days. You hear me?’
‘Rob! Rob?’ It was Eunice, Rob’s blonde, blowsy mother, shaking off the heavy restraining hands of her partner, Patrick Dowling, and surging forward with a panic-stricken face. She fell to the gravel beside her eldest son. ‘What’s happened? What is it?’ she said, clawing at Rob’s arm as if that could wake him and stop all this madness.
‘Leave him, Eunice,’ said Ruby. ‘He’s going to be all right. Just give him some air.’
‘What the fuck?’ Daniel came up and stood there, ashen, staring down at his fallen brother. Leon was at his shoulder. He said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on Rob and he looked like he was about to throw up.
‘My boy! Oh Christ! My poor boy,’ wept Eunice.
Kit looked up at Daisy, standing there sheet-white in her blood-splashed wedding gown. Ruby hugged her.
‘He’s going to be OK, Daise,’ said Kit, not believing it.
‘Of course he is,’ said Ruby. Over Daisy’s shoulder she saw Jody peer around the open church door. Quickly, she shook her head. Keep the kids in there. Don’t let them see this. Jody drew back into the church’s dark recesses. ‘Rob’s tough as old boots.’
Some of the other guests were huddling around the photographer. One of them was now staring down at the man and shaking his head. He was patting the shoulder of the woman kneeling, weeping, at the photographer’s side.
‘This can’t be happening,’ said Daisy. Kit could see stark terror in her eyes.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ said Kit. He checked for Rob’s pulse again. Oh Christ. Weaker. ‘Hang on, Rob,’ he muttered. ‘Hang on, you old bugger.’ He felt tears start in his eyes. He clung on to Rob harder. ‘Christ’s sake, mate. Don’t . . .’ And his words choked on a sob.
It felt like an age until the ambulance arrived, but it was only ten minutes. When the paramedics stepped in to take over, Kit stood back, let them do their stuff. He looked down and in faint surprise saw that his hands were stained bright red with blood. Rob’s blood. His head was empty of everything but what he’d felt over these last desperate, hideous minutes.
This must be shock, he thought. This must be what it feels like.
‘What happened?’ the paramedics asked, looking at the two casualties.
‘They were shot,’ said Kit, and then everything changed. The police rolled up, blue lights flashing, getting warily out of their cars, keeping their distance. A couple of minutes later a plain car drew up; more officers. And these had guns.
Kit looked at Daisy, who had slumped down and sat hunched on the church steps. What could he say to her? This was worse than bad. This was a living nightmare.
&n
bsp; Daisy was staring at him. He saw the hope there in her eyes, the pleading. But he couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear. Tears started to cascade down her cheeks. Ruby crouched beside her daughter, trying to help but unable to. What should have been the happiest day of Daisy’s life had turned into a disaster.
24
Romilly slept late on Saturday. She awoke to find herself alone in the very bed where Hugh had cavorted with Sally. She hadn’t even had time – or the inclination, or the strength – to change the sheets yet. And she knew that her reaction was skewed. Any other wife, surely, would have been tearing them from the bed the instant that tart vacated the premises. Putting on fresh. Wiping out the memory of what had happened here.
But not Romilly Kane.
Because she was relieved to find herself alone in the bed, and actually? She didn’t much care that she’d finally caught Hugh out with his cheating. She thought again of Hugh’s indignation, his anger, at being discovered. She’d known for a long while that something was going on. Barbed comments from him, a general lack of any real interest between them. So she’d laid her trap and snap! He’d wandered into it.
She rolled over in the bed. It smelled stale and once again she thought of Sally and Hugh in here, playing hide the sausage. Yuck. But lots of space to stretch out now. Hugh was a big man and she was six feet two inches tall. Truthfully, she’d felt a low-level annoyance for quite a long time when Hugh thrashed about in his sleep in the night and woke her – which he did, often.
Christ, I have to sleep she’d always thought on waking. The job! I have to sleep, or I can’t function.
Massive responsibilities rested on her shoulders. So she couldn’t be little wifey. She was a detective inspector and her brain was ticking away like a metronome most of the time. She couldn’t bring herself to give Hugh the strokes and pats he seemed to want.
