Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  Bridget glances down at Flora, relieved to see she’s occupied with unwrapping her fruit roll. ‘If you ring, you’ll get the answerphone, or me. Tris’s agent’s PA is responding to messages, so I’ll let her know I’ve spoken to you and tell her to cross you off the list.’

  ‘I only rang because we’ve been wondering what they’ve said at the hospital, if they’ve said how long he’s likely to be in there. We’ve been so worried, Jerry and I.’

  Deciding that an argument over a white chocolate rabbit is preferable to Philly’s insensitivity, Bridget’s moving further towards the alley.

  ‘I really don’t think this is the time or the place for this kind of conversation,’ she says. ‘Like I say, I’ll make sure Izzy knows you’re thinking about them.’

  ‘Have they any idea who did it?’ Philly asks of her retreating back. ‘I suppose when he comes round he’ll be able to tell them. Do you think the police will be speaking to us?’

  ‘Only if you’re lucky, Philly,’ says Bridget.

  Laura makes virtuous use of some of her morning, ironing a whole basket of laundry while she watches Homes Under the Hammer, then cleaning the bathroom and vacuuming the stairs.

  It’s warm enough to enjoy a cup of coffee in the garden, and she takes a seat on the decking Aidan put together two summers ago when he was still recovering from his injury but felt well enough to do something outside. The decking’s looking pretty; the fuchsias and trailing geraniums are all flourishing in their pots, though Gemma’s been neglecting her organic vegetables – a sprawling courgette, tomato plants whose fruit may never ripen, and fledgling lettuces where slugs have been active. When she’s finished her coffee, she fills the watering can and gives them all a drink.

  The garden’s always soothing. Over the roofs of the other houses in the cul-de-sac she can see the hills, and the faint smell of the bracken which covers them stirs thoughts of open country. Maybe this weekend they should all get out there, challenge themselves to a few miles’ hiking.

  And yet – with Tris so unwell, it feels disloyal to be planning things to enjoy. She wonders how Izzy is today, and thinks about trying to call, even picks up her phone to do so, but decides it might be inappropriate given Izzy’s situation. Instead, she sends a text – How’s things? Thinking about you. Here if you need anything x – and sits on a while, hoping for a reply, but her phone stays silent.

  Maybe a wander round the market will take her mind off things. Picking up her coffee cup, she goes inside.

  The pavements of Sterndale aren’t the bracken-covered hills, but it still feels good to walk. The market’s coming to its end, the stall-holders packing up vans with waste cardboard and unsold merchandise, and the greengrocer’s calling knock-down prices on the last of his stock. The Herefordshire strawberries look fabulous, and she buys two punnets; Josh and Gemma will love those. Then she buys local farm cream from the butcher’s, and a quiche to have with salad for this evening’s dinner.

  The chance to browse a while in the bookshop is too good to pass up. Fairey Tales is tucked away down a lane running off the high street, its curved Dickensian windows set in a frontage of old stone, its door so low, Aidan would have to duck as he went in.

  But the lane’s all but blocked by a blue transit van parked with its nearside wheels on the pavement, so Laura’s forced into the road to get by. In a house opposite the bookshop, a circular saw whines.

  Grace Fairey tells the story that she decided on her career as a child, when she realised her name was perfect for a bookseller. Laura thinks that’s too twee to be true; in any case, she’s heard the Sterndale rumour that Grace used to be a postmistress until she was prosecuted for embezzlement. That story doesn’t ring true either, unless Grace managed to retain the misappropriated funds to set up the business.

  Aidan doesn’t like Grace. With what he calls his policeman’s nose, he says there’s something off about her. Laura’s told him he’s too suspicious, that his time on the force has made him see the worst in everyone.

  As Laura goes in, the brass bell hanging over the door jangles. Tourists think it’s part of the old-fashioned ambience, but Grace has admitted to Laura it alerts her when anyone comes in, making her less vulnerable to shoplifters.

  Laura closes the door, shutting out the saw’s whine. Grace is at the counter, unpacking a box of books which fill the air with the scent of ink and new paper. There’s an elderly man reading in one of the comfortable chairs among the stacks, his walking stick leaning against the chair arm, and a weary-looking young woman with a sleeping newborn strapped to her chest, rocking from foot to foot as she studies the parenting section.

  Grace removes the glasses she was using to read a packing slip.

  ‘Hello, Laura. That damned racket from those builders! Every time anyone walks in the shop it sets my teeth on edge. I’ve asked him to keep the windows closed, but what does Dave Garner care about anyone else’s livelihood but his own? I told them they shouldn’t hire him – the man’s an out-and-out crook – but they didn’t listen, so let it be their funeral. Anyway, how are you?’

  Laura nods non-committally. The truth is that Tris and Izzy are monopolising her thoughts, casting gloomy clouds over the day.

  ‘I’m OK. I’ve come to pick up this month’s book club choice, if you’ve got it.’

  ‘I thought you’d be in, so I put one under the counter for you.’ Grace reaches down and takes out a book. The cover is in blue pastels, the title silvery cursive. ‘I think it was Karen’s choice, wasn’t it?’

  Grace has a way of expressing her opinion of people’s reading choices which Laura finds disconcerting. Plainly Grace doesn’t think Ollie’s mother Karen is any judge of literary worth.

  Fearing she might be regarded the same way, Laura comes to Karen’s defence. The last book she picked was a novel centred on gay relationships in the eighties, shocking, educational and funny in equal degree. All the group loved it, even elderly Miss Mason.

  ‘If it’s Karen’s choice, you know the discussion’s going to be lively,’ she says, finding her purse to pay.

  ‘Is there any news?’ asks Grace lowering her voice, glancing across at the new mother and the old man. ‘From Izzy?’

  Laura hands over a ten-pound note and shakes her head.

  ‘Not really, no. I spoke to Izzy yesterday but she didn’t seem to know much. Weekend staff and all that. She said there should be more today, but I haven’t heard anything yet.’

  ‘It’s been such a shock to us all. I find it incredible anyone could do that. Such a kind man, and so generous. I’m not supposed to say, but he made a big donation to the primary school, bought them several hundred pounds’ worth of books, and all through me. So thoughtful. Small businesses like mine are so vulnerable, and he seemed to understand – not in a patronising way – that the little boost would do me good. Of course he’s too modest to want it spread around, so I keep his confidences. And little Flora – he brings her in all the time, buying her books to read at bedtime. Such a gift to a child, isn’t it, a father who reads? My own father was a very literate man – he’d read everything from Plato to Austen – and that rubbed off on me.’

  She hands over change, and Laura puts the book in her bag. In the parenting section, the newborn is beginning to fuss, and the young woman makes her rocking more emphatic. The elderly man glances over at her sympathetically, and turns a page.

  ‘Speaking of Flora, Bridget brought her in earlier,’ Grace goes on. ‘I’m always happy to have children in here, as long as they’re not running round and causing chaos. But Flora’s always so well-behaved, isn’t she? Bridget bought her a couple of picture books – she was happy to take my recommendations, I’m flattered to say – and she bought a book for herself, too, a fantasy novel. Not a genre I know an awful lot about. I did wonder whether she ought to have put a personal purchase on the card Tristan gave her for household expenses, b
ut it’s not my place to say anything. A book is not a great extravagance, after all.’

  ‘She’s spending a lot of time at the lodge, with Izzy at the hospital. I suppose she needs something to pass her time while Flora’s asleep.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ says Grace. ‘Though you do wonder, don’t you, whether small acts of – well, it’s not exactly dishonesty, is it? Perhaps you might say taking advantage – but whether those small acts might be a slippery slope that lead to something more serious?’

  The Blue Moon café is busy with an influx of out-of-town visitors, and all the outside tables are taken. Laura doesn’t mind; she prefers to sit inside amongst Angie’s regulars, and when she’s ordered coffee and a slice of red velvet cake, finds a seat at a table where a couple are just leaving.

  At the next table, Miss Mason is sitting with Professor Tarn. Miss Mason is wearing her sunhat, even though she’s indoors, and despite the day’s warmth, her home-knitted cardigan is buttoned up to the neck. Professor Tarn has removed his fedora and hung it on the back of his chair, along with his walking stick. The professor is eating a cherry scone, thickly spread with Angie’s strawberry jam. Miss Mason doesn’t eat in public, but is sipping tea from a pot of Earl Grey.

  ‘Laura!’ she says, as Laura sits down. ‘How lovely to see you. We were just saying, weren’t we, Professor, that we hadn’t seen you for a while.’

  ‘Busy, busy,’ says Laura.

  ‘Did you enjoy the wedding?’ asks Miss Mason. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t invited. I do love a wedding, don’t you? But what a drama there was, I gather. Did you see anything of it yourself?’

  ‘Not really,’ lies Laura. ‘Too busy showing off my moves on the dance floor.’

  Angie puts cake and coffee in front of Laura.

  ‘It’s all anybody’s talking about in here, I’ll tell you,’ she says. ‘Is it right somebody’s whacked Tristan over the head?’

  ‘I think that’s a rather crude way of putting it,’ says Miss Mason. ‘Angela, would you put me a drop of hot water in this pot?’

  ‘I believe he’s sustained a head injury,’ says Professor Tarn. ‘That’s what I read in the Telegraph.’

  ‘National press, eh?’ says Angie. ‘Fame for Sterndale at last.’

  ‘Not the kind of fame we want, really,’ says Laura.

  ‘Beats me who’d do something like that,’ says Angie, picking up Miss Mason’s teapot. ‘It sends the shivers up me, thinking there’s someone in this town capable of being so brutal. Makes you wonder who you’ve got living next door.’

  ‘No doubt someone was inebriated,’ says the professor, spreading butter on the second half of his scone. ‘Alcohol and aggression go together, as often as not.’

  ‘Maybe it was some crazed fan,’ says Laura. ‘A stalker who finally tracked him down.’

  ‘If there was, it would be a female,’ says Miss Mason. ‘Mark me, there’ll be a woman in it somewhere.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ asks Angie, intrigued. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Miss Mason leans forward to press home her point. ‘I think it’s a crime of passion. A man like him draws women like moths to a flame. One of them will have had a hand in this. I can feel it in my bones.’

  Back at home Laura finds the door is unlocked, and she wonders whether Aidan’s come back for some reason, though there’s no sign of his bike or helmet. Anyway, it’s Maria’s day off, so if Aidan left the shop he’d have to close it, and only a dire emergency would provoke him into that.

  Gemma’s schoolbag is on the kitchen floor.

  Laura puts the quiche and the cream in the fridge, and the strawberries by the sink ready for washing. At the bottom of the stairs, she listens. Sounds like Gemma’s on Netflix or YouTube, as usual.

  Upstairs, as she stands outside Gemma’s door she hears music that reminds her of a tune she can’t quite recall. She taps at the door and walks in.

  Gemma’s sitting at her desk. As she hears the door open, she closes the lid of her laptop, a standard move for her these days. Laura’s about to give her a telling-off – what does she think she’s doing, playing truant? – but then stops. Gemma’s been crying.

  Disarmed, Laura goes to her and puts her arm around her shoulder, while Gemma wipes away tears.

  ‘Sweetheart, what on earth’s the matter? Why aren’t you at school?’

  ‘They sent me home. I wasn’t feeling well.’

  ‘What sort of not well?’

  ‘I’ve got terrible period pains, Mum. Really, really bad.’ She rubs her stomach to make the point.

  ‘Poor old thing.’ Laura strokes her daughter’s hair. ‘Why don’t you jump into bed? I’ll get you a hot water bottle and some paracetamol and you can have an hour’s sleep. I thought you looked pale this morning. You should have said something. And why on earth didn’t you ring me? I could have picked you up.’

  Laura feels relieved. A case of PMS explains Gemma’s mood over the weekend. Thank God for that: no anorexia.

  In the kitchen, as she finds painkillers and fills a hot water bottle, she realises what the music on Gemma’s laptop made her think of, proof – if it were needed – how much Tris and Izzy are on her mind. Upbeat and brass-heavy, the tune was reminiscent of the theme to an old show she used to watch before she was married with her own mum.

  Find a Fortune, presented by an up-and-coming newcomer, Tristan Hart.

  Seventeen

  Mid-afternoon, and the team is gathering in the first-floor conference room at Burnt Common. The air-conditioning’s malfunctioned, and despite the cooler temperature outside, with so many bodies in there, the room’s hot. Muir asks someone to open a window, but they’re sealed shut. Weld has left her jacket at her desk, pleased she wore a short-sleeved blouse. Golding’s really struggling, and his face is red. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes away the sweat.

  Muir’s leading the meeting, standing up front alongside a pinboard holding a photo-portrait of Tristan and a map of Sterndale where the hotel’s location is marked in red.

  ‘OK, let’s get started,’ says Muir, and people settle into chairs and fall quiet. ‘Thanks for coming. I think we all have the background to this case – if you don’t, I suggest you get on iPlayer and take a look at the weekend’s news bulletins. Basically this is a serious assault on Tristan Savage – known to most of you as Tristan Hart – which took place on Saturday evening during a wedding celebration at the Sterndale Hall Hotel. Kirstie’s been to the hospital this morning, and the victim’s condition is currently listed as stable with no firm prognosis as yet. In other words, he could make a full recovery, or he may have suffered life-changing injuries. Only time will tell. What we’re all hoping is that he’ll regain consciousness in the next few days and give us his account of what happened on Saturday, and that he’ll name his assailant. That would make our job very much easier, but let’s not be dragging our feet on the assumption that will happen. Most of us have dealt with cases where medically a victim did not get the outcome the family was hoping for.

  ‘Obviously this case is very much in the public eye, which puts us under some pressure. Having said that, although the pool of suspects is potentially high – given there were a hundred and fifty guests at this event as well as hotel staff – the assailant is likely to be contained within that group, meaning it’s on the right side of unlikely we’ll be needing major resources from outside the area. That’s the good news. The bad news is, we don’t currently have much to go on. He was hit over the head with a champagne bottle, and I do mean champagne and not one of its cheaper cousins. Those bottles as you may know have some weight. He was hit from the side, which means he may or may not have been in dialogue with whoever struck him, and might or might not suggest it was someone he knew. Hardly conclusive, unfortunately. Anyone, even a perfect stranger, might have approached him. For someone like him, I’m sure it happ
ens all the time. The big question for me is what he was doing in the pool area in the first place. It’s a long way from the marquee where the reception was being held, so what prompted him to go there? I think there’s the possibility of a pre-arranged meeting, but if that’s the case, I don’t think it’s one the wife knew about. Is that right, Kirstie?’

  Weld nods agreement. ‘Mrs Hart, or Mrs Savage, says she noticed him missing and asked a friend to look for him, that friend being our old colleague Aidan Ridley, who some of you will know. If she knew where he was, she’s lied about it to me.’

  ‘As for the bottle, the weapon, that ended up in pieces,’ continues Muir. ‘Whether dropped after the assault or deliberately smashed is impossible to say at this stage. We’ve recovered prints, but they’ve been hard to isolate. A lot of people will have handled that bottle, from wine merchants to bartenders and waiters, before we even get to the wedding guests, and we don’t yet know whether our attacker is among those people, or whether it’s someone not yet on our radar. So the prints may prove useful, but there’s a crowd of people who could have left prints without criminal intent who’ll need to be eliminated.

  ‘What we do have is CCTV of the car park area which Nate’s been having a look at – how did you get on, Nate?’

  Golding hauls himself out of his chair and lumbers to the front of the room where a laptop connected to a projector screen waits on a table.

  ‘I may have got something,’ he says, and the room shifts with anticipation.

  Using a mouse, he opens a video file, and a blurry shot of the hotel appears on the screen. Golding fast-forwards to where the time on the screen shows 16:00.

  ‘The victim appears twice in the time-frame I was looking at, between 14:30 on Saturday and the time the emergency call was made, which was around 21:30. He arrives with a woman I assume is his wife at around 16:10. Here they are.’