‘I’ll do it myself,’ says Dalton, and Weld looks at him admiringly. ‘Then there’s no risk. To be frank, wages here are not adequate to remove the temptation from any of my staff to cash in on Mr Hart’s misfortune.’
‘I’d be surprised if we don’t see pictures of the hotel and the wedding emerge online in the next few days anyway,’ says Weld.
Dalton almost smiles.
‘Without the blood, I have no problem with that. Don’t they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity?’
‘What now?’ asks Weld, as they pull out of the hotel’s driveway.
Muir considers.
‘We’ve got enough to make a start. First thing is to speak to Tristan’s wife, see if she’s any idea who might wish him harm. Then let’s get in touch with the mother-of-the-bride for a guest list and have a look at the car park CCTV. And I’d like to get hold of that soldier’s video. There’s probably nothing on there, but you never know.’
Muir turns into the high street, which is already becoming busier with Sunday visitors. Looks like Sherman might be right about the Star and Garter.
‘His wife might be a suspect, if she hasn’t got a solid alibi,’ says Weld. ‘It could just be a straightforward domestic, transported to a romantic setting. They both have too much to drink, then a blazing row, she grabs the weapon to hand and knocks him on the head.’
Muir nods agreement. ‘Could be. And we need to consider the celebrity factor. With someone in the public eye, you’ve always got the possibility of a complete wild card, the stalker fan scenario or the deluded and dangerous. Maybe he upset someone on Twitter or didn’t reply to a letter twenty years ago, and now someone’s tracked him down.’
‘Possibly,’ says Weld. ‘But if it were a mad fan, I think they’d go after him in London. On the other hand, a small town like this, people get upset over some offence or slight, and things fester. With the assault being here, I’m definitely thinking it’s more likely to be someone local.’
As they reach a pedestrian crossing, the lights are red, and they wait while a couple with twin boys in a double buggy crosses in front of them.
‘Do they have kids?’ asks Muir. ‘Tristan and his wife?’
‘I don’t know. If they do, they probably keep them away from the cameras. If they’ve any sense.’
At the moment the lights turn green, Muir moves efficiently on.
‘I’ll draw up a plan of attack for tomorrow,’ he says. ‘When Tristan comes round, he’ll likely tell us who attacked him, so I’m reluctant to go all hands on deck for now. Interviewing a hundred and fifty wedding guests is a big ask on resources. But of course we have to make a start. Why don’t you pay a visit to the hospital first thing, get a senior medic’s opinion on how serious the injuries are and find out when we can expect to speak to the victim? And have a word with the family at the bedside, see if you can get a feel for how happy or otherwise the relationship is. We’ll know better how to proceed after that. It makes a difference whether we’re looking at attempted murder or common assault, after all.’
‘Do you think I should go there today?’
‘We need an expert opinion on Tristan’s injuries, and I don’t think we’ll get to the right people over the weekend. We’ll get better information tomorrow. But make first contact with the relatives, let them know our enquiries are underway and we’ll be wanting to speak to them imminently. Sherman can put out a holding statement with the usual thoughts with the family and ongoing investigation, to keep the press and the top floor happy. As for me, it’s still my day off, and my kids are waiting for me to get on with putting up their swing.’
Nine
Mid-afternoon, the storm breaks.
Laura doesn’t realise she’s been dozing until she’s startled awake by thunder, and moments later rain hammering on the conservatory roof. Beyond that, the house is quiet.
She’s stretched out on the sofa with cushions at her back. When she settled down to read, the sky outside was blue as yesterday, and the conservatory was so hot, she decamped to the lounge. Now the page of the book she was trying to read has disappeared from the blank screen of her tablet, and she’s feeling chilly in her sleeveless top and skirt. But her headache has abated, and her stomach’s settled enough that she’s feeling hungry. What she needs is proper food, fat and carbs to soak up yesterday’s excesses.
There’s a chicken in the fridge Aidan wanted to barbecue, but the storm’s put that out of the question. Maybe a proper Sunday dinner would be nice? They spend so little time together as a family; sometimes it feels as if they’re living in the same house but leading separate lives. At this moment, Josh is no doubt on his PlayStation (she should tell him to get off it) and Gemma – who knows what Gemma’s doing? As for Aidan, she’s no idea where he actually is.
She finds a cardigan, drinks a glass of water and puts the chicken in the oven. As she’s peeling the potatoes she thinks of Tristan, wonders how he’s doing. Should she ring Izzy? She’s reluctant to intrude, and yet shouldn’t her friend know she’s thinking of them?
By the time the potatoes are in the pan, she’s made up her mind to call, but when she dials Izzy’s mobile, it goes to answerphone. Leaving a message of best wishes, she finishes with Call me when you can. Then it occurs to her to try the house phone, thinking Bridget might answer and give her news, but the line sounds engaged. Instinct tells her the phone’s been left off the hook – hardly surprising, given the interest there must be in Tris’s accident.
As she makes a start on the carrots, Laura promises herself that if she’s heard nothing by tomorrow morning, she’ll walk round to Foxcote Lodge and speak to Bridget in person.
From a third-floor window, Izzy’s watching the rain fall on the flat roof of the ugly hospital building opposite. People dressed in summery cottons are hurrying through the downpour.
Yesterday sunshine, today rain. The cliché’s overused and trite, but the comparison to their situation makes her feel tearful again. Everything’s falling apart. She wants to stay optimistic and believe a few days here will see Tris back to normal, but it’s frightening to see him lying there still as death, and disturbing to hold those cold hands which refuse to respond to her touch.
Tiredness is undermining her resilience. She’s dizzy with lack of food and sleep, and her legs are feeling wobbly, but the corridors are long, empty spaces with nowhere to sit down. Instead, she leans forward against the window, pressing her forehead to the cooling glass. At least it’s less claustrophobic out here than it is in the ICU: the incessant beeping of the monitors, the unnerving stillness of the patients, the constant watching him for the first sign of improvement – the twitch of a finger or the flickering of an eyelid – creates unimaginable stress.
Someone touches Izzy’s shoulder.
‘Here you are,’ says Steph. ‘We were wondering where you’d got to.’
Izzy rubs away her tears.
‘I was just getting some air.’
‘There’s no need to cry. He’s going to be fine.’
Steph speaks firmly, determined to make it so, and in the face of her confidence, Izzy feels ashamed of the deep fear at her core, that she could lose him. Without Tris, the light will go out of her life. The tears begin again, and she turns her face away, embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I just can’t help it. In my mind I keep seeing him lying there, and there was nothing I could do. Do you really think he’s going to be OK?’
‘I know my son, and so should you. He’s a fighter, and he’ll be back with us before you know it. Look, you’re over-tired, and it’s been a shock. Eamon and I have been having a little discussion, and we think you should take a break. Why don’t you go home for a while? Have a shower and something to eat, spend some time with Flora, try and get some sleep. I’m sorry to say I think we’re in it for the long haul, and I can’t believe anything’s going to c
hange in the next few hours. With all those drugs they’re giving him to keep him sedated, there’s no chance whatsoever he’ll wake up and find you not there. What I’m saying is, let Eamon and I take this shift, and you come back and take over first thing in the morning. Both of you have suddenly vanished, and Flora will be wondering what on earth’s going on. You have to think of her as well as Tris, and there’s Bridget, too. Isn’t she only supposed to work part-time?’
Izzy shakes her head.
‘I can’t leave him. Couldn’t you and Eamon go and see Flora and let Bridget go home?’
‘We’re not Flora’s mummy and daddy, Izzy. It’s going to be hard enough for her not seeing him for a while, without you going missing in action too. And how are you going to take care of him if you don’t eat and sleep? He’s being fed by machine, but we can’t say the same for you. Eamon will drive you. I’m more than competent to take care of Tris for a few hours, you know. I’ve had plenty of practice, over the years.’
Izzy feels a stab of guilt. Of course Steph is competent, and she deserves some time to care for her son, even if that care is no more than keeping the flame of the bedside vigil burning. This won’t go on forever, and there’s no need to shut Steph out.
She gives a wan smile. ‘I know how capable you are, and I know you’ve always taken the best care of him, because he’s told me so. You’re right, I need to think of Flora too. And there’s no one else I’d trust him with but you.’
Izzy’s grateful for Eamon’s silence as they drive back to Sterndale. The tail of the storm has left the sky grey and moody, and it’s much cooler than yesterday. When Izzy shivers, Eamon turns on the heater, remarking on the absurdities of the British weather and the need for heating in June.
As they draw close to Foxcote Lodge, he clears his throat but still doesn’t speak, though Izzy senses there’s something he wants to say. They pass the hotel, and she sees their little Fiat in the car park, wondering why it’s there when they arrived at the reception in the Range Rover.
Only yesterday, when life was normal.
There are strangers by the gate, and the gate is closed. It’s another anomaly in this strange new world: Tris likes the convenience of driving unhindered in and out, and always prefers it to stay open.
‘Press,’ says Eamon. ‘I’ll sort this out.’
He stops the car a few metres up the road, and Izzy watches him speak to those waiting. He’s smiling, charming, and when he’s said his piece, he opens the gate and fastens it back. Tris has the same confidence and charm, and Izzy feels she could be looking at him, thirty years from now.
Will Tris still be here in thirty years? Will he be here in thirty days?
Eamon gets back in the car. ‘If you don’t want your picture taken, keep your head down. I’ve told them – very nicely – that if they come on the property, they’ll be sued for trespass. It’ll give them pause, at least.’
Izzy bends down to the dashboard with both hands over her face, and they drive into Foxcote Lodge through a whirring of cameras. Eamon pulls up by the front door, but leaves the engine running.
‘I won’t come in. Give Flora a kiss from us. Listen, Izzy, I know how you women are. You both love Tristan, and you both want to take care of him. I know Steph can be a little overbearing sometimes, but cut her some slack, won’t you? In these early days, looking after him is a novelty – if that word doesn’t sound too flippant – which I’m afraid will soon wear off. She means well. And she will take the best care of him, as I’m sure you know. She won’t let those doctors get away with anything. Tiger mum, isn’t that what it’s called? What I’m saying is, we’re all on the same team, on Tris’s team, and we have to be prepared to rely on each other. It’s the only way we’re going get through this. Do I make sense?’
Izzy nods.
‘What you need to do is get some rest and come back tomorrow fighting fit,’ continues Eamonn. ‘This is shift work, and you’re back on duty first thing in the morning. OK?’
He has kind eyes. Tris’s eyes are more intense than kind. Maybe Eamon is what he’ll mellow into.
She leans across and kisses him on the cheek.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ she says.
‘My pleasure,’ says Eamon. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Flora runs to Izzy as she walks into the hall, full of things she and Bridget have been doing and demands for Izzy to admire the egg-box caterpillar she’s painted bright blue. There’s a smudge of paint on her cheek, which Izzy kisses before she rubs it off.
Then Flora looks past Izzy to the closed door at the end of the hall. The brightness in her face disappears, and the blue caterpillar she was so proud of is forgotten.
‘Isn’t Daddy here?’
Unsure of how much to say, Izzy glances towards Bridget, but her back’s turned as she heads towards the kitchen.
So Izzy opts for a generous coat of whitewash.
‘Daddy’s going to be away for a few days.’
Flora pouts in disappointment. ‘Why?’
Izzy hesitates. ‘He isn’t very well. The doctors and nurses are looking after him in the hospital.’
Flora brightens up. Hospital sounds interesting and exciting.
‘Can I go and visit him?’
‘Maybe. We’ll have to see. But he’ll be home before you know it, and then you can be the nurse.’
‘But who’s going to read my bedtime story?’
‘Daddy gave special permission for me to do it,’ says Izzy. ‘He said I could read the squirrels one.’
Flora looks doubtful. ‘I don’t think you can do the voices properly.’
‘Daddy gave me special training.’
Flora looks deep into Izzy’s eyes, checking her sincerity.
‘If Daddy said so, I think it would be all right,’ she says. ‘And if I’m going to be the nurse, I think I’ll need an outfit.’
She seems content, then, to settle back down to her vet’s surgery in the cupboard under the stairs, where she’s treating Paddington Bear and a tiger cub with tissue-paper bandages. In the kitchen, Bridget holds up a glass of cold white wine.
‘Thought you might appreciate one of these.’
‘Oh God, yes.’ Izzy takes the drink, feeling tearful all over again at Bridget’s kindness. ‘Wow, that’s a large one.’
‘You’ve had a shock.’
‘Thank you so much for staying with Flora. It’s all been so . . .’ The tears are about to properly flow. ‘I just can’t believe it. I can’t seem to take it in.’
‘Come and sit yourself down,’ says Bridget, in that same soothing lilt she uses when Flora’s threatening to lose her temper. ‘We’ve been doing a spot of baking. Things are always better with cake.’
In the kitchen, Izzy sits down at the scrubbed-pine table, where one of Bridget’s chocolate fudge cakes – Tris’s favourite – waits under a mesh dome embroidered with bees.
‘Me and Flora already had ours,’ says Bridget. She cuts a large piece, places it on a flowered side plate and hands it to Izzy with a fork. ‘It took me an age to get the buttercream out of her hair. Come on, eat, drink. You’ve had the most terrible day.’ Her face creases with concern. ‘What the hell happened? How is he? When’s he coming home?’
Izzy eats the sweet, soft sponge and drinks the wine, and as she tells Bridget about last night and this morning, a pleasant wooziness fills her head.
‘So do they think somebody hit him?’ asks Bridget, when Izzy’s said all she has to say. ‘But who on earth would do that? Do they have any idea? Do you?’
Izzy shakes her head. ‘None at all. I don’t understand it. Everyone loves Tris.’
‘Of course they do,’ agrees Bridget. ‘Will you have some more cake? Or I could make you a salad. If you don’t want it now, you could have it later. I’ve put a load of meals for Flora ready in the fridge there. You don’t
want to be worrying about what to feed her when you’ve not much appetite yourself.’
‘Thank you so much, Bridget. You’re such a rock. What on earth would we do without you?’
‘Oh, anyone would do the same. When you’re suffering a misfortune, of course I want to do all I can to help. But I really should get going now, if you think you’ll cope. I need a change of clothes and a shower.’
‘Yes, of course. It should have been your day off today. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, no worries. Do you want me to come tomorrow? You’ll be wanting to go to the hospital again, won’t you?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d be really grateful.’
‘I’ll be happy to. I’ll try and get here as early as I can. You might want to check the answering machine, by the way, the phone’s been going mental. I had to take it off the hook in the end.’
The answering machine is showing eighteen messages. Izzy finds paper and a pen and makes notes as she listens to them all: her mother and her sister, Tristan’s agent Duncan Painter, several people she’s never heard of who identify themselves as press, some friends who don’t live locally enough to get their updates from the Sterndale grapevine.
She calls her mother first, trying not to let Flora hear as she goes over events again, thankful for her mother’s offer to come and help out if she’s needed, though Izzy knows she’d much prefer not to make the lengthy journey.
Izzy’s call to Duncan Painter is brief but necessary. After expressing his shock and concern, Duncan reverts to his usual efficient self, and says he will cancel all Tris’s professional engagements, initially for the next month. He’ll also put out a press release, and tells Izzy to direct any media to him.
All the other callers, Izzy decides, will have to wait.
The smell of roast chicken draws Aidan from his hiding place; he appears as Laura puts the carrots in to boil, telling her he’s been upstairs going through the business accounts.
Innocent Page 6
