Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  With no explanation, Laura’s received a text from Aidan saying he’ll be late home. She tries calling him to ask why, but his phone goes to voicemail; when she rings the shop, Maria only knows he said he had to go out and left her in charge.

  It’s after 7 p.m. when she hears his car in the drive. Laura and the kids have already eaten, and Aidan’s share of a chicken risotto is cold in the pan.

  As soon as he comes into the kitchen, she knows something is wrong. Aidan goes straight to the fridge, finds a Budweiser, pops the cap and drinks down half.

  Josh comes in from the lounge carrying his PlayStation handsets.

  ‘Hi, Dad. You want to give me a game of FIFA?’

  ‘Not now, Josh, OK?’

  It’s not like Aidan to snap, and his response stings. Josh’s bright smile disappears, and Laura hears his quick feet on the stairs, the click of his bedroom door closing.

  Aidan takes another pull on his beer.

  Out of hurt for Josh, Laura’s cross.

  ‘What did you speak to him like that for? He only asked if you wanted a game.’

  ‘I don’t want a game, all right?’

  ‘What’s going on? What’s the matter with you? Where have you been?’

  Aidan drains the beer bottle, opens the fridge and takes the cap off a second.

  Laura is filled with misgiving.

  ‘Aidan, talk to me. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ve just spent the last three hours at Burnt Common police station,’ he says. ‘Apparently I’m a suspect in Tristan’s murder investigation.’

  ‘You? Why?’

  ‘Because of that money Tris gave me, lent me, whatever he did. First they tried to say I was aiding him in tax evasion. When I persuaded them there was nothing in that – not deliberately, anyway – they moved on to coercion, and suggested I was blackmailing him or something.’

  ‘Blackmail? What would you blackmail him over?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Could it have been tax evasion, do you think? He wouldn’t have used you like that, surely?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? Maybe he would. Thick ex-copper in need of cash, maybe he scented opportunity. I’m not ruling it out. Seems to me none of us knew him as well as we thought.’

  ‘Look, let me get your dinner. We can talk while you eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Gemma is standing in the doorway, looking from her mother to her father. ‘Are you OK, Dad? You look really stressed.’

  ‘Everything’s fine, sweetie,’ says Laura. ‘Your dad and I are just having a chat.’

  ‘I wanted to get some ice cream.’

  ‘Well, get some, then, and take it upstairs.’

  Gemma looks at Aidan. ‘I heard you mention the police. Are you in some kind of trouble, Dad?’

  Aidan’s face softens. ‘Not really, honey. There’s been a bit of a mix-up, that’s all. Nothing for you to worry about. How was school?’

  ‘The usual.’ Gemma’s walking away, towards the stairs.

  ‘What about your ice cream?’ Laura calls after her.

  ‘It’s OK, thanks,’ says Gemma. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  Aidan’s news has left Laura’s shoulder muscles so tight with stress, she’s poised on the cusp of a migraine she knows will kick in if she dares have a glass of wine. Instead, she runs a deep, warm bath, and adds a double measure of the camomile foam Josh gave her for her birthday.

  As she slides her shoulders under the water and closes her eyes, she hears the Top Gear theme tune, confirming Aidan has made his apology to Josh and they’ll be settled in front of the TV for a while. Of course things will get sorted, when Tris’s attacker is finally found; it just might be an uncomfortable ride until then.

  When the water becomes chilly, she dries herself before putting on pyjamas and a cotton robe. With the house quiet, there’s time for a few chapters of the book club choice.

  Borrowing Aidan’s pillows to make a backrest, she begins to read.

  ‘Mum?’ Gemma appears in the bedroom doorway. ‘Can I talk to you?’

  ‘Of course you can, sweetie.’ Laura pats Aidan’s side of the bed. ‘Come in, snuggle up.’

  In truth, she’s expecting no snuggling – the expression is a hangover from the days of young childhood – but Gemma climbs under the lightweight duvet and presses herself up against Laura, laying her head on Laura’s shoulder.

  Though she tries not to show it, Laura’s taken aback. Resisting the temptation to ask what’s brought about the display of affection, she puts her arm around her daughter, grateful – whatever the reason – for this rare opportunity to do so.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

  Gemma lets out a long breath, as if relaxing after a period of tension. ‘I’m tired.’

  Laura kisses the top of her daughter’s head, and smells the familiar peach shampoo.

  ‘Have an early night tonight, then. No Netflix till the wee small hours.’

  Gemma doesn’t immediately reply, and Laura’s thinking she may be falling asleep.

  But then she asks, ‘Mum, what’s it like in prison?’

  The question is a surprise.

  ‘Well, happily I can’t speak from personal experience, but I imagine it’s pretty grim. I suppose the biggest thing is loss of freedom, so you can’t go anywhere, you can’t see your family or friends, you can’t wear your own clothes or have a shower when you like, or chat on the phone. Or even have a phone. And I can’t imagine the food’s very good. No Häagen Dazs in there. Why are you asking? I hope you’re not worrying about Dad?’

  She feels Gemma nod.

  ‘Oh, sweetie, Dad’s not going to prison. It’s just that the police are trying to narrow down their list of suspects in Tristan’s case, and he and your dad had a business connection they need to ask about. That’s all that’s going on, I promise.’

  Gemma wipes the back of her hand across her eyes, and Laura realises she’s crying.

  ‘Gemma! What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking how bad it would be if our family got split up.’

  Laura passes Gemma a tissue, and Gemma blows her nose.

  ‘You sound like you’re still a bit down to me,’ says Laura. ‘Do you want me to see if I can find someone for you to talk to, in private? Someone you can tell all your worries? I know you don’t want to confide everything that’s happening in your life to me.’

  ‘I don’t need counselling, Mum.’

  ‘Are you sure, Gemma? Because I could easily ask . . .’

  ‘Mum. No. Do you really promise me Dad’s not in any trouble?’

  Laura holds three fingers in the air. ‘Guide’s honour.’

  ‘You say some funny things.’

  ‘You mean I say some old-fashioned things. We just have to trust the police. Mostly they get things right.’

  ‘Mostly isn’t always, though, is it?’

  ‘It’s often enough for you not to worry about it, and your dad can take care of himself. Trust me. You know what I think you need? Hot chocolate.’

  ‘Mum. It’s the middle of summer.’

  ‘I think we have marshmallows.’

  Gemma shakes her head and sits up. ‘No, thanks. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘If you’re going to bed, turn your phone off. Don’t be texting for the next three hours.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Sleep tight. And don’t lie awake worrying, either. Everything’s getting straightened out, and Dad’s going to be just fine.’

  Forty-eight

  People think they’ve got it all worked out.

  Proof of that came yesterday evening with four heavy thuds, as if a quartet of disoriented birds had hit the lounge window. Laura was working through a basket of ironi
ng, wishing she could smooth away her anxieties as easily as the creases in the pillowcases. Aidan was in his office, but ran down to find a slimy mess running down the double glazing, and smashed eggshells all over the gravel path.

  The culprits were nowhere in sight.

  ‘Youngsters, to be that quick,’ he said.

  Josh stood silently by him as he fetched a bucket of water and a cloth, and did his best to wash the insult away.

  ‘Why did they do that?’ asks Josh.

  ‘Because people are idiots,’ says Aidan, pouring the cloudy water down the kitchen drain.

  ‘They think you had something to do with what happened to Tristan, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, they didn’t leave a note, but I’m guessing it has to do with that, yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t do it, did you, Dad?’

  Josh looks close to tears. Aidan puts down the bucket, beckons him closer and stands facing him, hands on his son’s shoulders.

  ‘Who’s said I did?’ he asks, and Josh shrugs. ‘Who?’

  ‘People at school.’

  Aidan squeezes Josh’s shoulders. ‘Listen to me. You tell anyone who says anything against anyone in this family they can come and talk to me. Let them come and say it to my face. Tris and I were friends, we were mates, and people don’t do things to hurt their mates. Am I right?’

  Unconvincingly, Josh nods.

  ‘Fancy a game of FIFA?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Josh.

  ‘Afraid you’ll lose?’

  ‘No way.’

  Aidan ruffles his son’s hair. ‘Put your money where your mouth is, then. First to five goals wins, and you can have first pick of teams.’

  The next morning, as therapy to cut down on worrying about Aidan, Laura walks into town. In the Co-op, she adds two bottles of wine to the basket of necessities, and a bar of dark chocolate, which is always good for a low mood. She thinks half an hour among Fairey Tales’s bookshelves would help tune out the world, but if Grace isn’t busy she’ll have time to probe, and Laura’s not feeling up to close interrogation. The Blue Moon, though, is late-morning busy, so she hopes she can find a corner to hide in and drink a coffee undisturbed.

  Ready with her order pad behind the counter, Angie seems almost her usual bubbly self, but Laura senses an untypical coolness in her manner.

  ‘Hi, Laura. What’ll it be?’

  Now she’s here, the smell of food is turning Laura’s stomach. ‘Just a latte, please.’

  Always the saleswoman, Angie runs through the specials.

  ‘I’ve a red velvet cake, fresh this morning, or I’ve got local bacon if you want a BLT.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  ‘Not like you to turn down red velvet cake,’ says Angie, with a slight lift of one eyebrow, and realisation hits Laura that Angie’s playing to the floor. ‘I hope you’re not sickening for something. Don’t you go giving it to me if you are.’

  Laura hands over money to pay for her coffee, and Angie finds her change from the till.

  ‘Heard anything from Izzy, have you?’ she asks, placing coins in Laura’s hand.

  ‘Not for a little while, no.’

  ‘Thought you might not have, somehow. I’ve heard she’s gone away for a few days, having a break from all the drama. Can’t blame her for that, can you? Mind you, I’ve been hearing you’re having a bit of drama yourself. I’ll bring your coffee over, shall I, if you can find somewhere to sit.’

  The café is fuller than Laura thought, but there’s a seat near the window table where Hannah’s mum Mandy is finishing a sandwich. Pleased to see a friendly face, Laura makes her way to the table.

  ‘Hi, Mandy. Mind if I join you?’

  There’s a blob of mayonnaise at the corner of Mandy’s mouth, which isn’t smiling. She puts the remains of her sandwich back on the plate and picks up a napkin to wipe her hands and dab at her mouth.

  ‘Oh, hi, Laura. Yes, of course, sit, but actually I’m just leaving. I’ve got a dentist’s appointment, and I’m already running late.’

  Mandy’s picking up her phone, ready to drop it in her bag. A sudden lull in conversation brings the soft background music to the fore. Laura hears the sizzle of frying bacon, and a ringing in her ears.

  She raises her hand. ‘No, please, Mandy, stay where you are. Don’t be leaving on my account.’

  As she’s heading for the exit, Laura meets Angie bringing her coffee.

  There’s a smirk on Angie’s face. ‘You two had a falling-out, have you?’

  ‘Seems so,’ Laura calls over her shoulder as she walks out of the café.

  ‘What on earth was that about?’ Miss Mason asks the room.

  ‘I thought you would have heard,’ says Mandy. ‘Aidan’s been arrested in connection with Tristan’s death.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ says Professor Tarn, digging his spoon into damson jam. ‘I thought he was supposed to be some kind of policeman.’

  ‘Well, I must say you surprise me,’ says Miss Mason, refilling her cup with Earl Grey. ‘I always thought from the very beginning it would turn out to be a woman.’

  Laura’s only gone a few paces along the high street when someone touches her arm.

  ‘Mrs Ridley?’ The man’s a stranger to her, short and bent-backed, as if he’s carried too much weight for too many years. Beneath the peak of his cap, he has an outdoorsman’s face, wind-burned and lined. ‘You don’t know me, but I saw you with Mr Ridley at the funeral, last week. My Yvonne has a place in the churchyard there, and I was sat with her, watching the comings and goings.’ He holds out a grimy hand, thinks better of it and lets it fall. ‘Len Tyndall. Mr Ridley was always a help to me where my Jason was concerned. He wasn’t always a bad lad, but he took a wrong turn. Sometimes they do that, and you struggle to get them back on the right path, but if they’re set on going their own way, there’s not much you can do about it, take it from me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Laura, keen to get away.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sorry to hold you up, but I’ve heard Mr Ridley’s got problems of his own. Of course it’s not my business, and I don’t believe a word of what they say, knowing him as I have in the past. They talk some rubbish in this place and they always have done, three parts invention and the rest all lies, as my mother used to say. But I wonder if you’d pass on a message, just in case? Tell Mr Ridley if he needs a character witness to stand for him, old Len is here. He did all he could for my family, and it seems only right that I should do the same for him.’ He looks at Laura with rheumy eyes. ‘Will you do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mr Ridley tells me you’ve children yourself.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘I hope they’re a joy to you, a pleasure and a joy.’ Len looks down at his feet, and there’s a moment’s silence before he carries on. ‘Well, I’d better let you get on, I’ve kept you long enough. You’ve other things to do than listen to a yabbering old fool like me. But you’ll give Mr Ridley that message, won’t you? Tell him he can always rely on me.’

  Gooch’s phone rings as she’s heading for a lunchtime workout at the gym.

  She doesn’t recognise the number, but it’s a Sterndale area code.

  ‘DC Gooch.’

  ‘Yes, hi, Detective Constable. This is Craig Dalton here, at Sterndale Hall.’

  ‘Oh, hi, how are you doing?’

  ‘I’m good. Listen, I’m getting in touch because I’ve been contacted by Gloucestershire police, which I know is way off your patch. But they’ve found those miniatures I told you about, the ones which went missing from one of the bedrooms. I got a crime number for them, by the way, so thanks for your advice on that.’

  Gooch looks at her watch and keeps walking, wondering where this is going. ‘No problem.’

  ‘It was the SmartWater which ca
ught him,’ says Dalton. ‘First time we’ve had any success with it. The items were taken to a pawnshop in Gloucester, and the owner had the sense to scan them. When he found out they were marked, he handed them in for forensic examination, and now we have them back.’

  ‘That’s great. I’m glad you got it sorted.’

  ‘This might be the interesting part for you.’

  Gooch stops, ready to pay full attention.

  ‘The pawnshop owner had CCTV, so the police asked if I could identify the guy who brought the paintings in. As it turns out I couldn’t – we have dozens of guests every week, and I can’t remember them all – but it occurred to me it might possibly be someone you know, if they were from this area.’

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ says Gooch, ‘but if you send it through to my email, it couldn’t hurt to take a look.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘And if you can send a photo of the miniatures too? Just in case we get an ID. But if I’m being honest, don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘I won’t,’ says Dalton.

  The email arrives after lunch, when Gooch is back at her desk.

  She opens the attachment, and a familiar face fills her screen.

  Forty-nine

  Golding catches Muir’s eye as he comes into the office from an upstairs meeting. Golding’s grinning, so Muir hopes there’s positive news.

  ‘What’s up, Nate?’

  ‘I may have got something,’ says Golding, ‘but before I show you, I want to clarify we’ve already seen the records of Aidan Ridley’s calls to Tristan through his contract phone, to which he’s openly admitted.’

  ‘That’s right. He says those calls were made when they were talking about the alleged loan.’

  Golding nods. ‘But what’s still outstanding is the pay-as-you-go phone which was trying to make contact with Tristan, the one he answered once and from then onwards he bumped. We’ve still to identify who owns that phone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have a look at this.’ Golding points to a line of data on his screen. ‘This is a copy of transactions on one of Ridley’s credit cards. See here, two months ago. A charge of £34.99 at Carphone Warehouse.’

  Muir bends down to study the screen.