‘Well, your real name wouldn’t work half as well, would it? Though some people might say it’s a much better fit.’
‘Nice seeing you. Give my regards to Fiona.’
Tristan’s ready to walk away, but Murray steps forward to block him.
‘Give them to her yourself. She’s over there, in the marquee. It’s thanks to her we got the invite. The bride’s mother’s her second cousin or something. Not really my thing, weddings, but I’d heard you were living in Sterndale, and I didn’t want to pass up the possibility of bumping into you. And here you are.’
‘What do you want, exactly?’
Murray looks at him with malice in his eyes. ‘There are wrongs still to be righted. I think you know that.’
‘It was a clean break, Murray. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘It’s not about me, though, is it? It’s about other people. That woman you’re with, she’s a looker, isn’t she? And what about your little girl? When she grows up, is she going to find out about her daddy’s past life?’
‘Get out of my way.’ Tristan pushes past him, heading towards what he thinks will be the sanctuary of the hotel entrance, but Murray’s so close behind he can smell his aftershave.
‘All I’m asking is a few minutes of your valuable time, a private chat between you and me. What could be wrong with that? We’ll go for a turn round the grounds, just two old friends, taking a walk together.’
Tristan stops and turns back to face him.
‘You spend too much time watching those old films. What’s that one from? Let me guess – The Shawshank Redemption.’
Murray laughs.
‘You’re still the sharp one, aren’t you? Actually it’s Mystic River, Kevin Bacon, Tim Robbins. It’s in your best interests, Tris. If you won’t talk to me, we’ll have to think about going public.’
Tristan shakes his head.
‘Don’t threaten me, Murray. You don’t have the chops to follow through. We went our separate ways, and that’s how it’s going to stay. It’s nothing to do with you, and it never was. Now I’m going for a piss, and when I come out of there, don’t you be here waiting.’
Five
An hour’s passed since Tristan went to drop Flora off with Bridget. As the time slips by, at first Izzy’s unconcerned, thinking he’ll be caught in conversation, doing the rounds, spreading the love. She dances with Laura a couple of times and accepts another glass of prosecco, but she’s had enough to drink and it’s standing, untouched and fizzing, on the table.
Bending down to her handbag, she finds her phone, and presses the speed-dial button to call him. She hears his phone ringing out, but he doesn’t answer.
Laura leans across the table.
‘Where’s Tris?’ she asks, and Izzy shrugs.
‘I don’t know. Talking, probably. But I want to go soon. I tried to ring him but he didn’t pick up.’
‘He probably didn’t hear his phone in this racket. Aidan will take a turn about the place and track him down, won’t you, honey?’ Aidan’s only just sat down after visiting the gents. ‘Sorry, we should have asked you while you were up.’
‘I don’t mind,’ says Aidan, getting back to his feet. ‘I’ll have a see what Gemma’s doing, while I’m about it.’
The music’s getting louder; the dance floor is full.
Whoever did the seating plan, Aidan notices, has made a couple of gaffes, potential flashpoints as the evening progresses and alcohol removes inhibitions. Probably it seemed logical to seat the Proctor brothers and their wives together, but the brothers haven’t spoken for three years after a row over their mother’s will led them into a bitter court case. And they’ve put the farmer who shot an errant dog for sheep-worrying far too close to the dog’s still-grieving owner. If the farmer has any sense and sensibilities, thinks Aidan, he’ll be cutting his evening short.
Finally, he spots Gemma with Hannah and a few other friends. Most of the girls are laughing at something on a phone, but Gemma’s not joining in and seems distracted, looking towards the marquee entrance as if she’s waiting for someone to walk in. Is she still carrying a torch for Darren Ferris? If Darren’s broken his little girl’s heart, Aidan would love to get him in a dark alley and have a word, but that isn’t how it goes. Life lessons are not to be interfered in, though it’s incredible to him a toerag like Ferris could prefer another girl to his beautiful daughter. Maybe Gemma did the right thing and refused to go as far as Darren wanted. From what he’s heard, Rosie Stainforth’s boundaries are more flexible, but knowing Gemma’s got some kind of moral code doesn’t make it any easier to see her unhappy.
Someone touches his arm.
‘Is that you, Mr Ridley?’
Aidan looks down on an elderly man sitting alone at an otherwise abandoned table, a half-empty half-pint glass in front of him. He’s changed since Aidan last saw him, lost weight, gained years.
‘Hello, Len, how’s things?’
‘I’ve been better, Mr Ridley, if I’m honest.’
Aidan glances round as he sits down. ‘Where’s Yvonne?’
Len looks away, tightening his jaw to stop it trembling. ‘She passed, Mr Ridley. Six months ago now. All the stress over the years, in the end her heart gave way. Still, she’s no more worries now. I got her a beautiful spot in the churchyard, not far from her mum and dad. The way I’m feeling, I shan’t be far behind.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that. If I’d known, I’d have come to pay my respects.’
‘Well, you can’t be everywhere, can you? You lads have plenty on your plates, day to day.’
‘I’m not in the force any more, actually,’ says Aidan. ‘I’m invalided out.’
‘That’s a shame. I always had you down for being one of the good ones. What are you doing now, then?’
‘I’ve got a bike shop. It does all right, puts food on the table. What about Jason? How are things there?’
Aidan remembers Jason Tyndall too well – an addict with a ruthless streak when he needs cash to fund his habit, and a long-term, anti-social menace in Sterndale and beyond. In the White Lion, they still talk about the night Jason was refused service and threw a chair at the back of the bar, bringing down a Victorian mirror and several shelves of bottles in a catastrophic cascade of alcohol and glass. Sometimes, still, the regulars wind up the landlord by telling him Jason’s been seen in town, and sometimes it’s true, though Jason never stays long in one place, flitting between Detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure and the ditches and squats which add up to No fixed abode. If Len tells Aidan Jason is dead too, it will come as no surprise.
Len shakes his head. ‘He’s doing another stretch. They let him out early March, four weeks later he got recalled. I didn’t even bother going to court, not this time. We’ve heard it all before, haven’t we? All I know about it I read in the paper, that he robbed some poor bloke in a corner shop, threatened to cut his throat with a Stanley knife.’
‘I heard about that case. Didn’t they catch him on CCTV?’
‘That was him. Too spaced out on his dirty damned drugs to cover his face, the silly fool.’
‘Do you get to see him?’
Len shakes his head again. ‘He’s up in Durham at the moment. That’s too far for me to go at my age, even if I could afford the train fare.’ He musters a smile. ‘You won’t believe me when I tell you what a lovely lad he was growing up, the apple of our eyes. And he had a good heart, used to fetch a bit of shopping for old Billy Spence on Miller’s Lane, until the day his daughter came knocking to say Billy’s war medals had gone missing. Bit by bit he broke our hearts, and he wasn’t even there at the end to lay a few flowers on his mother’s grave. I made excuses for him many times – more than I ever should have, if the truth be told – but I’ll never forgive him for that.’
The weight of Len’s grief lies heavy between them.
‘I know
it hasn’t been easy for you,’ says Aidan.
Len picks up his glass. ‘Here’s to your kids, Mr Ridley. I hope you have better luck with yours than I did with mine.’
Amen to that, thinks Aidan, patting Len on the back as he moves on.
Darren Ferris and Rosie are sitting in the corner of the hotel lobby, holding hands. Rosie is uncharacteristically silent, and Darren thinks he might throw up, knowing he’s overdone the illicit Jägermeister. When she notices Aidan, Rosie gives him an embarrassed smile which Aidan doesn’t return. Darren puts his head in his hands, deciding to pretend he hasn’t seen him.
A burst of laughter from a group of twenty-somethings in the bar draws Aidan’s attention, and Rosie watches him cross to the open doorway and scan the room, where he seems not to find whoever he’s looking for. Rosie assumes it’s Gemma, and hopes he doesn’t ask her where his daughter might be, guiltily realising she might have totally wrecked Gemma’s day.
But Aidan ignores her and heads for the restaurant, which from what Rosie can see is deserted except for a sullen girl laying tables. Aidan’s soon back in the lobby, where the harried-looking receptionist is speaking into a phone. When she finishes her call, she comes across to Darren and Rosie.
Aidan moves closer so he can hear what she says.
Darren’s face has turned very pale, almost green.
The receptionist smiles. ‘They want you to wait here. Someone’s on their way to get you.’
A man wearing a black suit appears at Aidan’s side, his lapel badge announcing him as some kind of manager.
‘May I help you, Sir?’
Rosie hears Aidan ask if something’s going on.
‘If you’d like a drink, we have full service in the bar,’ says the manager.
Aidan says, ‘I think I’ve had enough, mate,’ and sits down in an armchair.
The manager leans over the desk to confer with the receptionist. Another burst of laughter from the bar blurs what’s being said, and Rosie only clearly hears one word: pool.
Aidan abandons his chair, heading out in the direction of the gardens.
Across the lawn, where the path leads between the box hedges, a sign reading Pool closed has been thrown aside. Aidan walks through the leafy archway and is confronted by a policeman in uniform.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, this area’s . . .’ begins the policeman, but then he grins and says, ‘Hello, Aidan mate, how’re you doing?’
The cogs of Izzy’s reality are slipping. She watches Aidan return, grave-faced, to the marquee table, sees his whispered exchange with Laura, and how she freezes for a moment, as if she were paused. Laura’s face gives more away than Aidan’s, so Izzy knows he’s told her something bad, though she’s already drawing her own conclusions, since Aidan’s come back without any sign of Tris.
Laura gets up and stands next to her, and from her chair, Izzy looks up at her friend, who touches her shoulder in the universal gesture of comfort which means it’s going to be something she really doesn’t want to hear.
‘What’s going on? Tell me what’s happened.’
There’s a whoop from the crowd as the music segues into Flo Rida’s Low.
‘There’s been an accident,’ says Laura, speaking loudly so she can be heard over the voices singing along on the dance floor, and it’s not her fault because she’s trying to be sensitive and break it gently, but for God’s sake, thinks Izzy, just spit it out.
‘Who? What? Just tell me!’
‘It’s Tris. The police are asking for you and the ambulance is on its way. Aidan and I will take you over there.’
‘What are you talking about? He just went to the car park to drop Flora off with Bridget. Has he been knocked down?’ Knocked down. Such an oddly vintage expression, but if that’s what’s happened, surely it’s not serious? Vehicles in car parks don’t drive very fast. ‘What about Flora? Is she OK?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Flora,’ says Aidan. ‘Tris is by the pool.’
‘What pool?’
‘Across the lawn, there’s a swimming pool. We’d better hurry. The ambulance will be here any minute, and if you want to go with him . . .’
‘Go with him where?’
‘To the hospital,’ says Laura. ‘They’ll want to have a look at him, I’m sure.’
‘Did he fall in?’ asks Izzy. ‘But he’s such a good swimmer.’
‘Please, Izzy, let’s hurry,’ says Aidan. ‘They can tell you everything when we get there.’
Blue lights strobe on the turquoise water. From a distance, they might be mistaken for a spin-off from the marquee dance floor, but there’s no music here, just the splash of water in the pool drains and the murmur of voices. A police car’s headlamps are trained on two kneeling paramedics, giving them light as they work under a sign saying Hotel Guests Only.
The dazzle behind the policeman obscures his face. He’s asking Izzy’s name and address and her relationship to the casualty, and when she doesn’t answer him, he starts again, this time talking to her as if she were five years old. In fact she’s already heard and understood him, but her focus is on the legs she can see in front of the female paramedic.
Izzy feels a lightness in her head, a strange, disorienting sensation as if she’s split into two people, one trying to talk coherently to the policeman, the other a fearful observer, mentally distant. Who is that person on the ground? Surely it can’t be Tris, and yet those are unmistakably his shoes. The male paramedic moves to take something from his bag, and Izzy sees a face made grey by the blue light, before the paramedic covers the nose and mouth with an oxygen mask. The mask gives her a measure of relief. If they’re giving him oxygen, that must mean he isn’t dead.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ she asks, and the policeman says, ‘Yes, Madam,’ before going back to his questions which, this time, Izzy answers.
‘Can I go to him?’
‘Better wait here until they get him stabilised.’
‘What do you mean, stabilised?’ asks Izzy, and immediately asks Laura the same, but Laura clutches Izzy’s arm and doesn’t answer.
‘He’s had a blow to the head,’ says the policeman.
‘You mean he fell?’
‘It’s too early to say.’
‘But what was he doing here? Who found him? You have to let me go to him. He needs to know I’m here.’
A car arrives and pulls up behind the police patrol car. A man and a woman get out, and a policewoman steps forward to greet them, leading them forward, pointing at the ground.
Aidan speaks quietly into Laura’s ear. ‘CID.’
‘We’ll have answers to your questions down the line,’ says the policeman, betraying no interest in the recent arrivals. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to go with him in the ambulance?’
‘Where will they take him?’ asks Laura.
‘An injury like that, I expect it would be Shrewsbury.’
‘An injury like what? How bad is it?’ demands Izzy.
‘Shrewsbury’s a long way,’ says Laura, to deflect Izzy’s attention on to domestic arrangements.
‘What about Flora?’ asks Izzy. ‘Who’ll look after her?’
‘Bridget will, of course,’ says Laura. ‘That’s where she is now, safe at home with Bridget.’
‘But tomorrow’s her day off.’
‘You’ll probably be home by then. I’ll speak to Bridget. You just go with Tris, and do what you need to there.’
The policewoman joins them.
‘They’re ready to move him.’ She looks from Izzy to Laura. ‘Which of you is his partner?’
‘I am,’ says Izzy. ‘I’m his wife.’
‘You can go with them in the ambulance, but they’ve asked me to tell you he isn’t conscious at the moment, just so you’re aware. Can I ask when you last saw your husband?’
Izzy shakes her
head. ‘I don’t know. An hour ago, maybe. Maybe a bit longer than that.’
‘She was concerned about where he’d got to,’ puts in Aidan. ‘I offered to go and see if I could track him down.’
The policewoman peers through the growing darkness.
‘Is that you, Aid?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
The paramedics are lifting their patient on to a gurney. As they wheel him towards the ambulance, they leave dark liquid on the ground where he was lying, and the glint of broken glass.
‘You’d better go,’ says Laura, encouraging Izzy forward.
Before she follows, the policewoman turns smiling back to Aidan. ‘Can’t stay away from the drama, eh? When are you coming back? We miss you.’
‘Sometime, never,’ says Aidan. ‘Other fish to fry, these days.’
Inside the ambulance, the paramedic tells Izzy to strap herself in, and as she does so, she sees the blood on Tris’s jacket. It’s one of his favourites, and she can’t help thinking that it’ll be ruined.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ she whispers.
‘Hospital’s the best place for him, at the moment,’ says the paramedic non-committally, and his colleague closes the doors.
The ambulance begins to move and picks up speed. From where she’s sitting, Izzy can reach Tris’s hand, and she lifts it to her mouth to kiss it, telling him she loves him, not caring what the paramedic sees or hears. This is all her fault. Didn’t he want to skip the wedding so they could be alone together at home? He’ll remember those moments in the bedroom, probably never forget them.
But she can live with that. She can take a lifetime of ribbing and reminding, as long as he’ll just – please, God, please – wake up.
At Foxcote Lodge, the night brings not the barking of foxes but the fluttering of bats.
Bridget puts Flora to bed without bath or stories, and within moments, the child is sleeping. Downstairs, Bridget instructs the Alexa devices to monitor the nursery. She’s already had dinner, but in the fridge there’s caramel cheesecake left over from what Izzy calls a supper two nights ago. Both Izzy and Tris are too diet-conscious ever to eat dessert, and it’s a shame to let it go to waste, so Bridget cuts herself a generous slice, pours on double cream and carries it into the lounge. As she’s savouring the first spoonful, her phone buzzes with an incoming call from her boyfriend, Manzi, whose job as a mechanic lets him keep regular hours. When she can’t be with him, sometimes he sulks. Saturday night, he’ll have had a drink or two, so he could be upbeat, or on the way back down to maudlin.
Innocent Page 3
