She hears him knocking at Gemma’s door and calling her name, wincing at his over-enthusiasm which can only provoke a rebuke. There’s a muffled reply from Gemma, and immediately Josh is running back down the stairs.
‘Mum! She used the F-word! She told me to F-off!’
‘Did she really?’ Now Laura will have no choice but to discipline Gemma. If she did get hold of any alcohol last night, maybe she’s feeling as bad as Laura.
‘Boy trouble,’ says Josh, heading for the lounge.
‘What makes you say that?’ Laura’s hoping for insight, but Josh only replies it’s what Laura herself says when Gemma’s being moody, which recently seems so often to be the case.
Laura goes upstairs and knocks gently at Gemma’s door.
‘Gemma?’ There’s no reply. Inside the room she hears the bed move as though Gemma has turned over. ‘Gemma, did you swear at Josh?’
‘Leave me alone!’
‘Don’t speak to me like that. It’s time you were getting up. You can’t just lie in bed all day. And when you get up, you can apologise to your brother.’
Gemma doesn’t reply, but Laura has no appetite for a serious fight. Aidan would tell her she’s doing the wrong thing letting Gemma get away with it, but Laura needs paracetamol and a shower.
Just this once, Gemma can stay where she is.
Eight
‘So you two have drawn the short straw on the Tristan Hart assault, have you?’
Brad Sherman is going into Burnt Common police station as DI Gavin Muir and DS Kirstie Weld are coming out. Sherman looks sharp, even though it’s early Sunday morning. Being camera-ready 24/7 goes with his job.
‘Not really a short straw,’ says Muir. ‘When we make the collar, we’ll be covered in glory, free beer all round.’ Muir looks pretty good himself, shaved, suited and booted, which isn’t bad considering that an hour ago when he got the call, he was in his man-shed in a paint-spattered T-shirt and ripped shorts, looking for the tools to hang the kids a rope swing from the branches of an ash tree. When he had to leave, the kids were badly disappointed, but they know if Dad’s been called out on a Sunday, something major’s going on.
Sherman looks sceptical at his assessment of where it will end.
‘A big wedding, people coming and going. You’ve a load of possibilities to sift through there, mate. What do we know about it so far?’
‘All we’ve got is a short report from CID who attended last night,’ says Weld. ‘Apparently he was hit over the head with a champagne bottle. Forensics have recovered the fragments.’
‘A champagne bottle? I suppose it makes a change from a glass in the face. Listen, no pressure, but with him being who he is, if you don’t nail anyone for it in short order, the press will be all over us.’
‘Always the optimist, eh, Brad? The way I see it, you’re Head of PR, so if it comes to that, it’ll be your problem, not ours. Which isn’t to say that we have any intention whatsoever of dragging our feet, even though it’s a Sunday and it was my day off. We always try to remain mindful we’re on the same team. We do our bit, you do yours.’
Weld is inclined to be kinder to Sherman than Muir. The Press Office isn’t somewhere she could ever see herself working; when balls get dropped anywhere in the force, or – worse – when people get hurt, they’re the ones packaging the screw-ups in their best light, doing damage limitation for demanding senior ranks and fending off journalists who have got increasingly aggressive in recent years. Social media’s made the PR job a nightmare. Even the smallest incident can get jumped on, ramped up and blown massively out of proportion with no one troubling to learn the actual circumstances or facts, like the recent three-hour stand-off with a guy holding his ex-partner and her kids hostage. When they finally talked him out and the woman and children were safe, he got a bump on the head getting in the van. Police brutality, hours later gone viral.
Sherman and his team have their hands permanently sewn into kid gloves, heart in mouth every time they press the West Mercia Police Tweet button. Anyway, Weld likes Brad Sherman. He’s too sensitive for the job in many ways, the kind of guy who gives a woman a compliment when she’s had her hair done. Some would call that old-fashioned, even sexist, but Weld would call it human interaction, a brightener in what are often difficult days. Muir’s at the other end of that spectrum. If she had a transplant and turned up with two heads, he’d never even notice.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t drop you in it,’ she says. ‘Regular updates and a quick result, that’s where we’re aiming. We’ve got inside knowledge on the team. You used to live in Sterndale, didn’t you, Gavin? The locals will open up to him and sing like bright yellow canaries.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ says Sherman.
‘In the meantime,’ says Muir, ‘while you’re stuck in the sauna-like heat of your non-air-conditioned office, our only immediate problem is which is the best route to Sterndale, but since it’s such a glorious day, I think we’ll take the scenic option. What do you think, Kirstie? Lunch at the Star and Garter on the way back?’
‘You’ll never get in there on a Sunday, not unless you’ve got a reservation,’ says Sherman. ‘And you’d be far better on the bypass. The world and his wife will be heading out there today, so best of luck. No doubt there’ll be news teams either already in situ or on their way there too, so please don’t make any comment to the media without checking with me first.’
‘We’ll refer them all to you,’ says Weld. ‘Is anyone going to make a statement?’
‘I’m going to give the Chief Super a call, organise a conference when she can get here.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ says Muir. ‘Sorry we’ll miss it. Better run up those stairs, Brad. I reckon I can hear your phone ringing from here.’
The car is already blazing hot, and the aircon’s inefficient. Within a mile of the police station, Muir and Weld have both wound down their windows.
‘Why do you always give Brad such a hard time?’ asks Weld. The roads out of Ludlow are quiet, but predictably most of the lights they come up against are showing red. Muir cruises to a smooth halt and puts the car in first, ready for a quick getaway. It’s in his nature; even when there’s no competition, he likes to be first off the line. Keeping in fighting trim, is what he calls it.
‘Do I give him a hard time?’
‘You’re always having a pop. He’s a nice guy. You should be nice back. You know, karma and all that?’
The light is changing, and true to form, the car moves forward without the slightest delay.
‘Nice is for family and friends,’ says Muir, eyes fixed on the road.
Weld senses there’s something she’s not being told.
‘Have you two got form?’ she asks, but Muir’s focus seems entirely on his driving. ‘OK, be that way. Well, I like him anyway. I think he’s a gentleman.’
Muir indicates a left turn, signposted for Sterndale.
‘I really respect your brainpower, Kirstie, you know that,’ he says. ‘But sometimes I have my doubts as to whether you’re a good judge of character.’
The road to Sterndale leads out through the suburbs. As they reach open country, Muir takes the back lanes rather than the A-road, and before long they’re climbing up into hills where the lowland meadows give way to moorland summits, letting in the scents of grass and bracken.
‘That’s the smell of my youth,’ he says. ‘Every opportunity I got, I used to be out here, biking or climbing. I was a lot fitter then than I am now.’
‘You don’t look so bad,’ says Weld. ‘And you can see why people come to live here, can’t you? People like Tristan Hart, especially. You make your pile, buy yourself a nice place in the country. No wonder so many ordinary people round here can’t afford a decent place to live.’
‘What do you know about him, anyway?’
Weld shrugs.
‘Same as everyone else, I suppose. Only what we’ve been told in the celebrity press. He started out on that game show, didn’t he, what was it called?’
‘Find a Fortune,’ says Muir. ‘My mum loved it.’
‘After that he went quiet for a while. Now he’s re-invented himself as a probing interviewer, amongst other things. I remember seeing a piece about him a while back in Hello magazine, him and his new wife. They made a lovely couple. She’s a real stunner.’
‘He’s on his second marriage, then?’
‘Aren’t they all?’
‘Some of them would be on number three or four by his age. He must be in his forties, isn’t he?’
‘If he’s had work, he might be older than that. I guess we’ll soon find out.’
They drive for a while in silence. Weld takes out her phone to check for messages, but the hills block any signal.
‘How do people live out here?’ she asks. ‘It’s like the Dark Ages.’
‘Rural deprivation is what they call it,’ says Muir. ‘Only when you look at some of the villages, they don’t look very deprived.’
As they reach the outskirts of Sterndale, Muir slows down and points to a cul-de-sac development of relatively new houses.
‘That’s where we used to live,’ he says. ‘Fifteen, Moor View Close. Sterndale was a great place when I was a kid – lots of freedom, dens in the woods and all that. A nightmare for teenagers, though. That great big world out there, and three buses a fortnight to the nearest decent-sized town. The arrival of a celebrity will have been a big thing for a small place like this, and with this assault, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. They’ll be talking about it well into the next century.’
‘That’s such a cliché,’ objects Weld. ‘Small town where nothing ever happens. I bet there was loads going on here you didn’t even know about.’
‘Oh yeah? Like what? In my day, the hot debate was where to site the new public toilets, and the biggest drama was the argument over who should get the lead roles in the Christmas pantomime. You have no idea.’
‘I’d love to live in a place like this, with a sense of community and everyone looking out for everyone else.’
Muir gives her a look with full-on raised eyebrows.
‘You’ve been watching too much Doc Martin. The hotel’s on the far side of town. Just for interest, have you got an address for the Hart residence?’
Weld glances at her notebook.
‘Foxcote Lodge. I assume that’s a house name. On Jigger’s Lane – do you know it?’
‘I think it’s out that way too.’
Muir drives them through Sterndale’s centre, where the town’s medieval roots show in the broad street still cobbled to both sides of the tarmac carriageway, and the timbered houses and shops are crookedly quaint. Weld notices some of the high street standards – Boots, Specsavers and a Co-op – but cheeringly, many of the retail businesses are small independents: the Blue Moon Café, Roberts and Sons High-Class Butchers, the Dreaming Hills Gallery, Copson’s the Bakers.
‘I love this place,’ she says. ‘It’s got real character.’
‘In spades,’ says Muir. ‘There’s the butter cross.’ He points to a stone stump set on a plinth of steps. ‘Where the farmer’s wives used to come and sell their butter on market days.’
‘But there isn’t a cross.’
‘Sadly long gone.’
‘What were the farmers doing while their wives were doing the selling?’
‘Out toiling in the fields. Shearing the sheep.’
‘Drinking the pubs dry, more likely, if it was market day.’
‘You’re such a cynic. There’s the turn for the hotel, just past the White Lion.’
At Weld’s request, Muir parks in the shade of a horse chestnut, so the car will be cool when they come out. A few spaces behind them, the Fiat Tristan was supposed to drive home is still where Bridget left it.
‘This is lovely,’ says Weld, as they head for the entrance. ‘Elegant.’
With the hall’s classical architecture she’s expecting a traditional interior, so the lobby’s contemporary décor is a surprise. The carpets are muted tartan, and generous sofas and chairs are grouped around low Swedish pine tables. The old family portraits are still here, but displayed on brilliant white walls, their beauty shines with no hint of fustiness. She smells freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastry, and begins to regret she didn’t grab breakfast before she left home.
Muir shows his warrant card to the receptionist.
‘DI Gavin Muir, DS Kirstie Weld, West Mercia Police. We’re here in relation to the incident yesterday.’
The receptionist turns a little pink, and Weld knows she’ll be storing this as a tea-break talking point.
‘I’ll just get Mr Dalton,’ she says, and disappears into the back, returning moments later with a man in a navy-blue suit and polished black shoes.
He shakes both their hands. ‘Craig Dalton. I’m the general manager. Can I ask you to come through to my office?’
‘Why don’t you just take us to where the incident took place?’ suggests Muir. ‘We can be getting a feel for it while we’re talking.’
Dalton nods his agreement and leads them through the hotel, out the back doors and across the lawns, where a team of men – most working with their shirts off – are dismantling the wedding marquee. Weld notices that Craig Dalton walks straight-backed with his chin up, as if he might once have been someone’s butler. He has an air of competent composure, suggesting he’d be good in a crisis – which considering what’s happened, Weld thinks is just as well.
‘We’ve tried to keep it under wraps as far as possible,’ he’s saying, ‘and although it’s hardly appropriate to speak of luck under the circumstances, it was a blessing that it happened where it did. The pool complex, as you’ll see, is set apart from the rest of the hotel. We couldn’t get planning permission for it any closer to the main building, because of the façade being listed. But by and large, the guests don’t seem to mind.’
They reach the gap in the box hedge, now blocked by a red-and-white barrier and a sign reading Pool closed until further notice.
Dalton moves the barrier aside to allow Muir and Weld to pass through.
The pool is before them, glinting in the sun. Blue and white police tape marks the place in front of the changing rooms where Tristan was found.
‘Of course I understand that you have your job to do,’ says Dalton, ‘but the weather is very hot, and our guests are keen to use the pool. What I’m asking, really, is how long do you think we’ll have to keep it closed? To be frank, there seems very little here to help you.’
Dalton’s right. Muir and Weld look over the tape, where blood has dried in a dark stain on the paving stones. With the broken glass removed last night, nothing else remains.
‘Do you have CCTV in this area?’ asks Weld, and the manager shakes his head.
‘I’m afraid not. The car park’s about the only area that’s covered.’
‘We’d like a copy of yesterday’s recording.’
Dalton reaches in his pocket, takes out a data stick and hands it to Weld.
‘I rather thought you might.’
Weld gives him a smile. ‘Thank you. If only everyone were as switched on as you.’
‘Were you on duty last night?’ asks Muir.
‘I was. I took over from my colleague just before the wedding reception was due to begin, at about four p.m., for continuity. It wasn’t long before my shift would normally have started anyway.’
‘How did you become aware of what had happened?’
‘One of the receptionists came to find me. Two young people had come running in saying they’d found a body. She didn’t believe them at first, and to be honest neither did I. I thought it was a prank, so I asked them to show me where. Even as I was following
them I expected them to go running off laughing at any moment, though on reflection they’d have been good actors to show the level of shock they did. As soon as I saw Mr Hart lying there, I called 999. One of your officers spoke to the teenagers last night and got their names and contact details.’
‘You didn’t see anyone else on your way here?’
The manager shakes his head.
‘No. But it was getting dark, of course. Like I say, we’re a fair distance from the house and where the reception was being held.’ He gestures round at the garden. ‘Plenty of places for someone to hide.’
‘There wasn’t any kind of trouble at the wedding? No fights or arguments?’
‘Thankfully, no.’
‘Were you aware of Mr Hart at all during the reception?’
‘He did a short video for a soldier. The young man asked him if he’d send a message to his friends in Iraq and Mr Hart made a good job of it. Quite touching, really.’
Muir and Weld look at each other, doubting the relevance of this.
‘There’ll be background, I suppose,’ says Weld. ‘Any idea of this soldier’s name?’
The manager considers.
‘Began with “S”. Simon, I think. I can’t remember his last name.’
‘We can find him from the guest list,’ says Muir. ‘Speaking of which, do you have a copy?’
‘I have a table seating plan. As I remember, all the guest names are on there. For contact details, you’ll obviously have to speak to the bride’s family. I believe the bride and groom have left the country for their honeymoon, but Mrs Clements, the bride’s mother, was heavily involved in the arrangements. I have her address and phone numbers. She lives here in Sterndale. I’m sure she’d be able to help you.’
Muir does a three-sixty, looking round at the pool and the sunbeds arranged on the hardstanding.
‘I don’t see any reason why the pool shouldn’t re-open,’ he says. ‘Can you find someone trustworthy to clean this discreetly? We don’t want lurid pictures leaking to the press. You’d be amazed what they’ll buy.’
Innocent Page 5
