The team watch the screen closely as the white Range Rover parks, and Tristan and Izzy climb out before Tristan goes to lift Flora from her car seat.
‘The wife’s Isobel, known as Izzy,’ says Weld. ‘The daughter’s Flora.’
‘And off they go inside,’ continues Golding. He glances down at his notes. ‘The next time we see him is at 20:21.’ He moves the video on accordingly. ‘Here he is, coming into shot from round the side of the hotel, carrying his daughter. You see him looking round, as if he’s expecting to see someone.’
‘He was supposed to be meeting up with the nanny,’ puts in Weld.
‘And here she is.’ Golding runs the moments where Tristan hands Flora over to Bridget and watches her drive the Range Rover away.
‘My kind of boss,’ says Muir, ‘giving her the keys to that beauty. If he’d given them to me, I’d have been inclined to take the long way home.’
‘Maybe she did,’ says Weld.
‘Now this is the interesting part,’ says Golding, letting the video move on at half-speed. ‘Tristan’s heading back inside, but he’s intercepted, by this guy.’
He freezes on the clearest frame he can find: a balding, overweight man in shirt sleeves, no tie.
‘So who the hell is that?’ asks Muir.
‘Looks to me like he was waiting for him,’ says Weld. ‘After an opportunity to speak to him away from the crowd.’
‘What happens next?’ asks Muir.
Golding lets the video run: the man rises from the bench where he’s been sitting; the two men talk; Tristan goes into the hotel entrance; a few moments later, the man follows.
‘Nothing after that?’ asks Muir, and Golding shakes his head. ‘Seems to me then this guy goes straight to the top of our list. First thing we need is to get an ID on him. He looks like a wedding guest, so Kirstie, why don’t you make it a priority to pay a visit to the mother-of-the-bride and get hold of that guest list. Take Amber with you on that.’ Weld turns round and smiles at Amber Gooch, the team’s new transfer to CID, who gives her a thumbs up. ‘Nate will print you a still from the video. Ask her if she knows who it is and we’ll take it from there. When you’ve got the list, send it through pronto for distribution to the team. The rest of you, as soon as it arrives, divide it up between you and get talking to everyone who was there on Saturday, and that includes hotel staff and guests independent of the wedding. Excellent. What else have we got?’
‘The video the soldier made,’ says Weld. ‘We could do with getting a look at that.’
‘Nate, I’m putting you on that too,’ says Muir. ‘What else?’
‘Just as background,’ continues Weld, ‘when I spoke to Isobel she mentioned a previous wife, and Tristan has an estranged son from that marriage, though she’s insistent what’s happened is nothing to do with them.’
‘Noted.’
‘And there’s the nanny.’
‘You and Amber can handle that too. OK? Everybody clear? We’re looking for a fast result on this one. I know it’s a lot of legwork, but the answer’s there, somewhere. And whoever makes the breakthrough can have the pleasure of buying me a pint.’
As the team are leaving, press officer Brad Sherman approaches Muir.
‘Just wondering what I should put out as an update,’ says Sherman.
‘You heard what I just said, Brad. We’re doing the legwork, the nitty-gritty. You can say that we’re making enquiries, how about that?’
‘Not very sexy, though, is it?’
Muir regards him.
‘You know what your trouble is, Brad? You want everything to be shiny baubles to bring the spotlight back to you. If you had any experience of policing more than just writing about what other people do, you’d know it’s ninety-nine percent sweat and one percent sexy. The sexy part could be weeks away, maybe even months. So you’ll just have to say, enquiries are continuing.’
‘But you’ve got a suspect now.’
‘No, we absolutely have not. We’ve got some bloke on a video who might be our victim’s brother or his next-door neighbour or the husband of some woman he’s been shagging. It might be the local publican come to claim an unpaid bar bill. I don’t know who that guy is any more than you do, so don’t you dare go saying there’s a person of interest in this case until I tell you it’s OK to say it. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly clear, as always,’ says Sherman, as he walks away.
Eighteen
It’s been a long day.
Izzy’s amazed how exhausted she is, when she’s done nothing but sit at his bedside, stroking his hand, talking nonsense to him, willing, hoping for there to be some flicker of a change. That hope won’t switch off, won’t let her focus on anything else – the book she’s brought to read, a game on her phone, the tattered pages of a communal magazine.
There’s been no change in him – no visible change, at least – but the waiting and watching take their toll, and it costs energy constantly to appear upbeat and optimistic in front of Eamon and Steph – and in front of Tris, because who knows what he can hear? – when all she wants to do is break down and cry.
And though they mean to be supportive and have every right to be there, Steph and Eamon don’t help. Behind her crow’s-feet smile, Steph’s showing a tyrannical streak, inventing rotas for fetching the endless coffees and taking breaks, and having three of them there makes a drama of every decision: who should call the nurse to change his drip (Steph nominates Eamon), who should liaise with the neurosurgical team (Steph nominates herself), who should go and buy newspapers to see what’s being said in the press (Steph nominates Izzy).
So it’s good to be home, snuggled up with Flora, who seems happy enough to have spent another day with Bridget. Whether Bridget was happy, though, is another matter; she didn’t hang around this evening, just said there was somewhere she had to be and called See you tomorrow as she hurried out the door. Izzy doesn’t blame her for the quick getaway; caring alone for a small child will make anyone crave freedom, eventually. Doubtless Bridget’s in the White Lion by now, drinking a pint of Timothy Taylor’s and having a catch-up with Manzi.
Home’s rhythms and routines are calming, borderline cheering, after the stresses of the day. There are some new books – obviously Bridget’s been shopping – which Flora is desperate to read, and they turn the pages together, with Izzy enjoying almost as much as Flora the absurd tale of an elephant trying to get on a bus.
As Flora’s settling down, she asks, ‘Is Daddy coming home tomorrow?’
Izzy kisses her forehead.
‘Not tomorrow, munchkin, no.’
‘Shall we go and see him, then?’
‘I think you might be too busy tomorrow.’
‘I might,’ agrees Flora. ‘Bridget says we can bake cupcakes. We got unicorns to go on top of them.’ She yawns. ‘I think Daddy would like one, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure he’d love one. And he loves you, very much. Now, close those beautiful eyes. Sweet dreams, munchkin.’
When Izzy’s sure Flora’s sleeping, she runs a deep, warm bath loaded with bluebell-scented oil and slips into the silky water. Tight muscles begin to loosen and her mind slows. Eyes closed, she begins to doze.
When her phone buzzes she’s tempted to ignore it, but what if it’s the hospital?
The bath water, anyway, is growing cold. Climbing out, she towels herself dry, finds clean pyjamas – a pair Tris picked out for her – and lies down on the bed to check who rang.
The missed call was from Laura, and Izzy decides to call her back. She needs to vent about Steph, and talk about her worries for Tris after what the doctor said. And maybe Laura can be persuaded to have Flora for a few hours, to give Bridget a break if she feels she needs it.
But the phone in her hand has reminded her about the one in her handbag, which she should check in case there’s anyth
ing on it for Duncan. Digging it out of a side-pocket, she switches it on, presses her finger on the screen, and it opens up.
At the top of the screen, the Messages, Missed Calls and Voicemail icons are all lit. She goes to messages first and finds two unread, both from someone named Tina.
She frowns. Tina? Who is Tina?
One is dated Friday, the other Saturday, the day of the wedding. Both are short and give little away.
17th now no good, how about 18th x
Can meet on 21st if u prefer T x.
For a few moments she studies the texts, trying to remember anything he might have said about the 17th and where he’s told her he will be, but his schedule’s always busy and it’s impossible to recall. A glance at the rest of the chat shows replies which are purely functional – arrangements to meet, nothing more – and typical of his style, without punctuation or niceties or emojis, reflecting his dislike of the technology. She wonders why they’ve been messaging when he’d usually prefer to call.
Does that mean he’s been avoiding being overheard?
She feels a prickle of disquiet, and asks herself again, racking her brains – has he ever talked about a woman named Tina? No one comes to mind.
Don’t get carried away. The obvious explanation is that Tina’s someone of such little importance, he never mentioned her. She could be someone who cuts his hair – no, that’s Beth – or does his facials – that’s Rhianna – or looks after his nails. Didn’t he find a new manicurist recently? Maybe it could be her.
There’s still the voicemail, which she’s somehow reluctant to hear.
Don’t be absurd.
She presses play and listens, but there’s no message. Whoever was calling hung up at the beep.
What does it matter? The whole country knows by now what’s happened to Tris. No one’s expecting him to call.
Why not leave it at that? But the disquiet is niggling, and she needs reassurance. She clicks on the Contacts file, thinking she’ll see a random list of inconsequential people.
But the list contains only six names, and – she can’t stop the thought – it reads like a list of hookers: Anna, Julie, Molly, Rowena, Sandi, Tina.
Too late to stop now. She opens up the text streams.
Apart from Tina, where the chat seems to have been going on – for God’s sake, it’s been over a year – the messages are sparse, covering arrangements for a single meet-up, then nothing more.
If Izzy were the jealous type, she’d be thinking this is some kind of sleazy indulgence.
But she and Tris are in love, and he’s always been faithful to her.
Hasn’t he?
Nineteen
Weld is pleased to have been teamed up with Amber Gooch for this trip. Gooch is bright and sunny-natured, happy to talk but not a chatterbox, keen to learn and prepared to take instruction without the kind of objections you sometimes get in male recruits, who tend to think that the moment they’re in CID they’ve risen above the menial tasks of door-to-door enquiries and making tea.
Gooch is well turned out in a smart dress, and her hair is immaculate, as always. She specialises in vintage up-dos full of twists and knots, which she insists are easily accomplished, if your sister’s a beautician and has taught you well. With her short, platinum bob, Weld could never dream of such a hairstyle, but she admires its feminine elegance, and so do the men in the office, if the attention Gooch gets is anything to go by.
The drive to Sterndale isn’t the same summery outing as it was when Weld came up here with Muir on Sunday, but the heat and the traffic are both reduced, for which she’s grateful. As they drive, Gooch points out a couple of hiking trails she’s done with her boyfriend. Weld glances up the valley sides, thinking it looks too much like hard work.
‘You’d get on well with DI Muir,’ she says. ‘He loves his hill walking. I prefer the flat. Give me a treadmill any day.’
‘You should try it,’ says Gooch. ‘Fitness and fresh air, all for free.’
‘Rain and wind,’ counters Weld.
‘And pubs.’
‘There’s a pub next door to the gym.’
The satnav takes them directly to the address provided by the hotel manager, on a prosperous-looking road leafy with mature sycamores whose roots are pushing up cracks in the pavements. The houses are oversized mid-twentieth-century semis which have been around long enough to have developed individual characters. Most of them look well cared for and cherished.
‘I’d love to live in one of these,’ says Gooch, ‘but that’s not happening unless we have a lottery win. We’re saving up for a deposit to get out of our horrible flat, but I don’t think we’ll be moving to Sterndale any time soon.’
‘Me neither,’ says Weld. ‘But you gotta dream big, girl. What number are we after, twenty-six? Looks like it’s that white one.’
Weld parks the car, and leads Gooch up the drive towards a front door sheltered by the arched entrance of a porch. The front garden’s tidy, the lawn cut and edged by weed-free beds planted with sapphire lobelia and white alyssum.
‘Look on the bright side,’ says Weld, ringing the doorbell. ‘At least you don’t have to do any gardening.’
But Gooch looks wistful.
‘I’d love a garden,’ she says. ‘We’ve no room even for pot plants in our flat.’
The door is opened by a woman in late middle age, wearing a heavily lipsticked smile and what Weld suspects would be called loungewear: pink joggers and a long-sleeved T-shirt to match. Her tan looks like it could be real, and her hair is freshly coloured; her toe- and fingernails are painted a beige shade of nude, though as she holds the door open, Weld sees one of the fingernails is chipped.
She holds up her warrant card, and behind her Gooch does the same.
‘Mrs Clements? DS Kirstie Weld and DC Amber Gooch. I rang you earlier.’
‘Yes, yes, come in, come in. You’re very prompt. I’ve just boiled the kettle. Go through, we’ll go in the lounge. Make yourselves comfortable. Will you both have tea?’
Gooch accepts for them both; it’s a technique she’s learned from Weld. Even if you don’t drink it, while they’re out making tea, it’s an opportunity to have a look round.
The furnishings are tasteful but bland: cream sofa, cream curtains and a cream carpet that still has the smell of new wool. There’s a blown-up black-and-white studio portrait on one wall – a boy and girl lying on the floor smiling together in an improbably harmonious sibling pose – and on another, facing the sofa, a huge TV. The whole room, thinks Weld, is a metaphor for modern life: lacking colour, too focused on the kids, too dominated by TV.
The most striking feature of the room is its partial transformation from a comfortable living room into something more like a warehouse. The sofa’s been pulled away from the wall, and behind it are stacked masses of gifts wrapped in silver and white paper.
‘Wow,’ says Gooch. ‘Christmas come early.’
‘Wedding presents.’ Mrs Clements is carrying in a tray of tea with, Gooch is pleased to see, a plate of biscuits. ‘Excuse the mess. Suzie wanted to save them until they get back off honeymoon, something to look forward to. They’ve gone to Vietnam, of all places. It’s such a long way – I couldn’t face the flights myself – but Ed’s always wanted to see it, and Suzie didn’t mind where they went, as long as it was warm. Dennis and I thought we were being adventurous going to the south of France, but tastes change, don’t they? Help yourselves to Hobnobs. I suppose you want to talk about what happened at the wedding. To be honest, Suzie and Ed don’t know anything about it, unless they’ve seen it on the internet. Do they have the internet in Vietnam? I suppose it’s everywhere, these days. We’d already seen them off before we knew anything was wrong, and you’ll understand it didn’t seem necessary to spoil what had been such a lovely day. They’ll find out all about it soon enough, and obviously it’s not
hing to do with them.’
Seated on the sofa, Gooch has taken a biscuit and is nodding politely at Mrs Clements’s monologue. Weld sees an opportunity to get a word in.
‘You’re quite right, Mrs Clements . . .’
‘Gail, please.’
‘Gail, we are here about the wedding. We got your details from the hotel manager, and he’s suggested you could provide us with the guests’ contact details.’
Mrs Clements pulls a face.
‘I suppose I could. How is he, anyway, Tristan? Such an awful thing! You know, I shouldn’t say it, but I regret inviting them now. It was Suzie’s idea. We can’t claim to be close friends – chance would be a fine thing – but Suzie knows Izzy slightly through local events – they go to the local pub sometimes, attend fundraisers, they’ve been really good for Sterndale in that way – so she thought she’d like to ask them, and they accepted. Suzie was over the moon. Well, it adds a bit of sparkle, doesn’t it, having a celebrity at your wedding? It was my idea little Flora might like to be a flower-girl to keep my granddaughter company, the other bridesmaids all being that much older. Of course, if we’d any idea of what was going to happen . . . Suzie will be so upset when she finds out.’
‘So you could provide us with a list?’
‘Yes, of course. Dennis was so organised, he put it all on a spreadsheet, names and addresses, whether they’d RSVP’d, where they were going to sit, any dietary requirements, vegetarians and gluten-free and even one or two vegans. Kept him quiet for hours, that did. I can print you a copy if you’d like.’
‘If I give you my email, maybe you could send it to me before we go?’ says Weld. ‘And we have a couple of questions about people who were there. We’re told Tristan made a video for some servicemen in Iraq at the request of a soldier. Can you tell us who that was?’
Mrs Clements’s face softens.
‘Ah, lovely Simon. One of Suzie’s old school mates, such a likeable lad. Well, hardly a lad any more, is he? His mother worries herself sick about him when he’s out there. Wasn’t that a sweet thing for Tristan to do? It brought a tear to my eye, I’ll tell you.’
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