When Ashley returned home to discover both her mother and her father lost to her, she found a note from her father that read “Sorry about all this. Can you get Sparky back from the police? He needs walking twice a day and likes to sleep with his blue blanket. Love you lots, Dad xxx.”
Sophie Mellors landed on the National Crime Agency’s “Most Wanted” list, and for good measure was also the subject of a European arrest warrant, for her involvement in an organization that went by the name of Anderson Price Associates. Anderson Price Associates was a front for a group of criminals, including Mrs. Mellors’s husband, Leeds-based solicitor Stephen Mellors, now deceased, that was responsible for trafficking girls into the UK. They brought in innumerable girls under false pretenses and the girls were then sold into the sex industry. The three “associates”—Thomas Holroyd, Andrew Bragg, and Stephen Mellors—all also had links to the case known as Operation Villette, but none of them were subject to prosecution in either case as they were all deceased.
Neighbors said that they hadn’t seen Sophie Mellors or the couple’s children for several weeks.
Sophie Mellors (“widow of the murdered House of Horrors gang boss”) was long gone, of course, on a Brittany ferry to Bilbao with her two confused offspring in tow. Ida threw up for the whole of the crossing. When she wasn’t throwing up she was weeping because she had been forced to leave her pony, Buttons, behind, and the promise of a replacement in whatever country they settled in was no comfort whatsoever. There would never be another horse like Buttons, she wailed. (True, as it turned out.) Jamie had long since retreated into silence. He had read everything on the internet about Bassani and Carmody, as well as everything about the trafficking case his parents had spearheaded. He hated them for what they had done and despised them for getting caught.
Sophie had always been sarcastic about Tommy’s and Andy’s devotion to cash. Stephen’s share of the Anderson Price profits was salted away in a variety of untouchable Swiss accounts. She hadn’t spent years as an accountant without learning a trick or two. She holed up in Geneva while considering the safest refuge. Most of the countries that did not have extradition treaties with the UK were singularly unattractive—Saudi Arabia, Tajikistan, Mongolia, Afghanistan. She briefly considered Bahrain, but in the end opted for simply buying new identities for them all, the cost of which would have bankrolled a small war. Then she enrolled her children in very expensive boarding schools in Switzerland and bought a farmhouse in Lombardy which she spent her time renovating, more or less happily. Ida never forgave her for the loss of Buttons, or anything else, for that matter.
So who did kill Wendy Easton?
Craig the lifeboat man. Craig Cumming killed Wendy “in a jealous rage,” according to the prosecution at his trial. He had gone around to the victim’s home, Thisldo, in the hope of rekindling his relationship with her. In evidence, Detective Inspector Anne Marriot said that Craig Cumming killed Mrs. Ives (who also went by the name Easton) with a golf club which was kept in the garage. The golf club might indicate a spur-of-the-moment act of rage, the prosecution argued, but the golfing gloves that Cumming was wearing—it was a warm evening at the height of summer—were evidence of premeditation rather than spontaneity. Cumming’s phone records showed that he called the victim fourteen times in the two hours previous to the killing.
Wendy Ives, who was separated from her husband, Vincent, had previously confided in a friend that she was scared of her former boyfriend, after he started following her to work. Reading from a written statement outside the court after the trial, Mrs. Ives’s daughter, Ashley, nineteen, said, “I am pleased that justice has been done, but no one can replace my mother, taken so cruelly from us by this man. She was the kindest, most loyal, most generous person in the world.”
Craig Cumming was sentenced to life imprisonment with a recommendation that he serve a minimum term of fifteen years.
Trouble at t’Mill
On the way, they made a detour up to Rosedale Chimney Bank to stretch their legs and look at the sunset that was flooding the vast sky with a glorious palette of reds and yellows, orange and even violet. It demanded poetry, a thought he voiced out loud, and she said, “No, I don’t think so. It’s enough in itself.” The getting of wisdom, he thought.
There was another car parked up there, an older couple, admiring the view. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” the man said. The woman smiled at them and congratulated the “happy couple” on their wedding and Jackson said, “It’s not what it looks like. She’s my daughter.”
Marlee chuckled when they got back in the car and said, “Right now they’re probably on the phone to the police, reporting us for incest.” She had startled the woman by giving her the bridal bouquet. The woman had looked unsure, as if it might be bad luck.
“I know I’m egregiously cheerful,” Marlee said to Jackson (he filed the word “egregiously” away to look up later), “but I expect it’s just hysteria.” She didn’t seem hysterical to Jackson. He’d seen a lot of hysteria in his time. “You know what it’s like,” she continued. “Demob happy, school’s out, and all that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jackson said, although he didn’t, because he’d never personally jilted anyone at the altar. His life might have been better if he had.
Josie had already been pregnant when they married, so Marlee would still exist (the nonconception of beloved children always a stumbling block to the if-I-could-live-my-life-over-again fantasy). He and Julia had never married, never even come close to it, but Nathan would have happened anyway. And if he had never married the evil, thieving Tessa, he would probably still be a rich man and would have been able to afford the wedding his daughter had wanted, instead of allowing “the in-laws,” as Marlee had already been calling them, only mildly ironically, to pick up the tab. “Why not?” she said. They were “filthy rich” and, having only sons and no daughters themselves, they wanted to make a big deal out of this “union,” as they called it. “And anyway,” Marlee added, “they love me like a daughter.”
“No, they don’t,” a curmudgeonly Jackson responded. “I love you like a daughter. They ‘love’ you like the prospective mother of their grandchildren. You’re just a broodmare for their bloodstock, so they can continue to inherit the earth ad infinitum.” Yes, it had been a particularly bad thing to say, but he had met them and didn’t like what they stood for, even though they were perfectly pleasant (extremely pleasant, in fact) and Jago—yes, that was the name of the groom—was a harmless type (he had brothers Lollo and Waldo—go figure), although he had a bit too much charm and polish for Jackson to feel he was trustworthy. He was “something in the City,” a phrase that always baffled and irritated Jackson in equal measure.
“We can’t possibly let you pay,” the in-laws said when they were introduced to Jackson. “The kids want an enormous do and it would be our pleasure to foot the bill.” Jackson had demurred, but to no avail. He had only met them the once and was finding it hard to believe his blood was going to flow with theirs—in “union”—for the rest of eternity, or however long the planet lasted. They came from an ancient and aristocratic lineage, with a huge country pile outside Helmsley and a townhouse in Belgravia. They had the kind of serious and discreet old money you never hear about.
There had been a “small party”—champagne and strawberries—in the garden of the London house to celebrate the engagement. Jackson had asked Julia to come with him for moral reinforcement, and even though it was her only weekend off from filming she had agreed quite cheerfully. She wanted to “see how the rich lived,” she said. Jago’s parents seemed to be under the misapprehension that Jackson and Julia were still a couple. Jago’s mother was a fan of Collier and was quite excited at the idea of welcoming a “celebrity” into the family.
Jackson was contemplating a plate of tiny canapés when Jago came up behind him, put his arm around Jackson’s shoulder, and said, “I can’t keep calling you Mr. Brodie. Shall I call you Jackson? Or”—he laughed at this point—“sho
uld I call you Dad?”
“You could try,” Jackson said. “But I wouldn’t advise it.”
I know my timing’s awful,” Marlee said. “I didn’t intend to jilt him, Dad. And certainly not at the altar.”
“And yet you did.”
“I know, poor Jago. It’s such an awful thing to do to someone. I’m a complete cow. Is this the debrief now? Are you going to castigate me for leaving a trail of destruction in my wake, or congratulate me on regaining my freedom?”
“Well, actually, I was going to commiserate with you for marrying someone called Jago.”
“Posh boy?”
“Yeah, posh boy,” Jackson said. After a couple of miles he glanced at her and said, “Shouldn’t you be more upset?”
“Time enough for that,” Marlee said. She laughed again and said, “And after Julia went to all the trouble of buying a fornicator.”
A fornicator?”
“It’s what I call a fascinator. They’re so stupid, I hate them,” Julia said.
“And yet you’re wearing one?”
“Oh, well, you know, it’s not every day that your son’s half sister gets married.”
Actually she looked rather fetching. The fascinator wasn’t ludicrous, not a royal-wedding one, but a discreet little black cap with an alluring net veil that made her look old-fashioned and French, especially as she was wearing a two-piece suit that “shows I still have a waist.” Time had been called on her role in Collier—the “popular pathologist” had met a grisly end in her own mortuary after being dragged around a lot of East Coast scenery, which viewers always appreciated seeing. Julia had let slip to Jackson that she was going to the gym on a regular basis. It was such an unlikely thing for Julia to be doing that Jackson could only presume she had answered the call from Strictly Come Dancing. He hoped it wasn’t because of Callum. “It’s nothing, just sex,” she said airily when questioned. Jackson wondered if he was supposed to take comfort from that.
She definitely looked more stylish than Josie, who had opted for a floral dress and jacket that screamed “mother of the bride.” (“Jacques Vert,” Julia murmured. “Very aging on her.”) No fascinator for Josie, instead a large ornate hat. She looked uncomfortable. Perhaps she knew her daughter was about to make the mistake of her life. Not that Jackson had had much more than a glimpse of the wedding party from the church door. The church was near the groom’s home, and was Norman and pretty, full of the same pink roses that made up Marlee’s bouquet.
Marlee had spent the night in the hotel where the reception was to be held, along with the in-laws and Josie, but Jackson, Julia, and Nathan had opted for the Black Swan in the main square in Helmsley. Two rooms. Julia and Nathan in one, Jackson in the other. Nathan had eaten with them, slumped over his phone and barely looking up from whatever game he was playing. It seemed easier to let him than berate him to sit up straight, eat properly, join the conversation and all the other little building blocks of civilization. “The barbarians aren’t at the gate,” Julia said, “they’re rocking the cradle.” It didn’t seem to bother her as much as Jackson felt it should.
Good time with your friend?” Jackson asked when he picked Nathan up after finally managing to free himself of the aftermath at Silver Birches.
He shrugged. “S’pose.”
Jackson had picked him up from the Collier set, where his mother was in her final death throes. He had swapped him for Dido. “Fair exchange,” Julia said. He missed the dog immediately—perhaps he should get one of his own. He had briefly been in charge of a rather unsatisfactory dog with a stupid name. Perhaps he could get a more manly dog—a collie, perhaps or an Alsatian, called Spike or Rebel.
Nathan threw himself carelessly into the passenger seat of the Toyota and immediately took his phone out. After an interval he looked up and turned to Jackson and said, “It’s good to be back, though.”
“Back?”
“With you, Dad. I was thinking… maybe I could live with you all the time.”
“Your mother wouldn’t let you,” Jackson said. Happiness had risen up inside him like a big bubble and he hung on to it before it—inevitably—burst. “But I’m very happy that you want to.”
“S’okay,” accompanied by another shrug. Nathan’s indifference deflated the bubble a little, but not entirely, and Jackson reached out a hand to cradle the back of his son’s head. Nathan batted the hand away and said, “Daa-aad, keep your eyes on the road.” Jackson laughed. Everything was all right, everywhere. For a little while, anyway.
A vintage Bentley, pink ribbons on the hood, took Jackson and Marlee the short distance from the hotel to the church. She had wanted everything about this wedding to be stylish and in “good taste.” Style, not substance, Jackson thought. Even the hen party had resisted tackiness, according to Julia, who had been invited. No drunken knees-up in York or Ibiza, instead it had been a pink-champagne afternoon tea in a private dining room in the Savoy. “Very sedate,” Julia reported back. “Not an inflated penis-shaped balloon in sight. Bit of a disappointment, really, I was rather looking forward to the blow-up penises. It was ferociously expensive too, I expect.” Jackson supposed the in-laws paid.
“It’s just a wedding,” Jackson had complained to Julia. “It’s too much emphasis on one day.”
“It does rather raise expectations about the marriage that comes after,” Julia had said.
“She’s too young to get married anyway.”
“She is,” Julia agreed, “but we all have to learn from our mistakes.”
Had she learned from hers?
“Every day’s a learning experience,” she laughed. It was the kind of thing that Penny Trotter would say. It was all quiet on the Trotter front. The Penny/Gary/Kirsty eternal triangle was low down on Jackson’s list of priorities at the moment. He had been more preoccupied with the fact that he was going to have to buy a new suit.
“Why?” he moaned to Julia. And, yes, he sounded like Nathan.
“Because,” she said.
The Bentley dropped them off outside the gate to the church. “Lychgate,” according to Marlee. The car was booked for a one-way journey only, and after the ceremony the wedding party would walk back the couple of hundred yards to the hotel where the reception was to be held. It involved crossing a field. “I thought it would be nice,” she said, “like an old-fashioned country wedding.”
“What if it rains?” Jackson asked. And, on a more practical level, what if there were people with mobility issues?
“There aren’t and it won’t,” Marlee said. He admired the certainty of her optimism (not gained from his genes, obviously). Nonetheless he had parked the trusty Toyota behind the church, on the off chance of rain or sudden disability or both. “Or in case you want to run away at the last minute,” he joked to Marlee. How they had laughed.
They made their way slowly up the path toward the church, where a cluster of bridesmaids in various sizes but all in the same (tasteful) shade of pink were waiting for them. Nathan had refused point-blank to be a page boy. Jackson didn’t blame him.
“She’s your sister,” Julia had cajoled.
“Half sister,” he corrected her. “And I hardly know her.” Which was true and something that Jackson regretted. “I suppose there is quite an age gap between them,” Julia said, but there’d been an age gap between Jackson and his sister and that hadn’t stopped them being close. She should have been there, he thought, sitting in the front pew, wearing an unflattering hat and an outfit that aged her, looking around, trying to get a first view of her niece as she progressed along the aisle toward her future.
Except apparently there was to be no progression and the future was about to be changed.
“I don’t think I can, Dad,” Marlee murmured as they arrived at the church.
I know you think I’m too young,” Marlee had said. “But sometimes you just know when something’s right for you, you know?”
And then a bit later you know it’s wrong for you, Jackson thought, but butt
oned his lips tightly so the thought couldn’t escape into the refined air of the “shoe floor” of the London department store to which he had escorted his only daughter a month before the “big day.” (Every day’s a big day, a greeting card in Penny Trotter’s shop said.) It was a far cry from the Clarks of Marlee’s childhood where Jackson had occasionally been press-ganged into attendance by Josie.
The shoe floor was so big that Jackson thought it probably had its own postcode. You could be lost in here for days and never be found. The sound of one shoe dropping. If a shoe drops in a shop and there’s no one to pick it up… but there would be someone, because the place was overrun with assistants wanting to serve them. The shoes were tended by a fleet of Prince Charmings of one gender or another (and then another, ad infinitum nowadays, it seemed to Jackson. He remembered when it was just men or women. The cry of Luddite! could be heard in the distance, growing nearer).
Shoe shopping (wedding-shoe shopping, just to add an extra layer of neurosis to the affair) was his punishment for being an inadequate father and not taking enough interest in Marlee’s pre-wedding plans. And probably for not paying for the wedding either.
“What can I do to help?” he’d offered when they had met in London. (“Just the two of us—lunch,” she’d said. “It’ll be nice.”)
“Well, I’m still fretting about shoes,” she said. “I’ve left them until the last minute.” The last minute for Jackson would have been literally the last minute, popping into a shoe shop en route to the church, not a month before his nuptials. “You could come with me and help me choose,” she said.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be much good at the choosing part,” he said, “but I’m very happy to pay for them.” A brave offer, it turned out. They cost not much shy of a thousand pounds. For shoes! They looked uncomfortable. “Are you sure you can actually get down the aisle in them?”
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