‘And his last name?’
‘Fisher, Simon Fisher. His mum lives just round the corner from here. Pauline, I know her quite well. He lives with a local girl, and they’ve got a baby now, a little boy. It’s a worry for his girlfriend too, isn’t it? His address will be on Dennis’s spreadsheet, same as all the others.’
‘One last question.’ Weld hands Mrs Clements a video still of Tristan in the car park, talking to the man she’s keen to identify. ‘Can you tell me who this is?’
Mrs Clements looks around the room.
‘I’ll need my glasses.’ She finds them in a case on the seat of an armchair, but the fashionable frames age her, and even wearing them she holds the picture far away from her face.
‘Now who is that?’ She squints, puzzled. ‘There were so many people there, and some of them were Ed’s friends and family I’ve never met before. Maybe he’s from their side. No, wait a minute. I know who that is. Murray. Murray . . .’ She looks out of the window for inspiration. ‘Murray Roe. He married my cousin, Fiona. I hadn’t seen either of them for years. Fiona and I are friends on Facebook, but that doesn’t mean very much, does it? They live a long way from here, somewhere in the West Country, I think. Stroud, maybe? Is that the West Country? Anyway, after I put it on Facebook that Suzie and Ed were getting married, she messaged me and asked if they could come to the wedding. You could have knocked me over with a feather.’
‘So you wouldn’t have invited them as a matter of course?’
Mrs Clements shakes her head.
‘No. Like I say, we hadn’t seen them in years. But she said it would be lovely to see everyone and catch up, and it was difficult to say no, though to be honest we were trying to get the numbers down, not up. I wouldn’t like to tell you how much it’s all cost. So they got an invitation. That’s him, anyway. That’s Murray.’
‘And his contact details will be on your spreadsheet.’
‘Oh yes, Dennis put everyone on the spreadsheet. Except Tristan and his wife, of course. You can understand, people like that don’t want to give out phone numbers and such. Suzie hand-delivered their invitation, and they posted back the RSVP. He’s not lacking the money for a stamp, is he? Have you seen their house? It’s gorgeous, just gorgeous. So much character.’
‘So this Murray Roe,’ says Weld. ‘Can you think of any reason why he’d be talking to Tristan?’
Mrs Clements draws in her eyebrows, thinking, and is shaking her head to say no. But then light comes into her eyes.
‘Yes, I can, as a matter of fact. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. There’s a family connection there, or at least there used to be, years ago. Murray’s step-sister was Tristan’s first wife.’
Weld and Gooch leave with digital and paper copies of Dennis Clements’s wedding guest spreadsheet file, and screenshots of the Messenger chat between Gail Clements and Fiona Roe. They’ve also copied Gail’s excited Facebook announcement that the Harts would be attending her daughter’s wedding.
In the car, the two women take a closer look.
‘Look at the dates,’ says Gooch. ‘Fiona Roe makes first contact with Gail Clements less than twenty-four hours after she tells the world the Harts will be there. That’s a coincidence.’
‘But we don’t like coincidences, do we?’ says Weld. ‘Maybe we’ll be having a trip to the West Country. I’ll forward this guest list through to Nate, then the rest of them can get going on working through it. Lucky them.’
‘So is Stroud in the West Country?’ asks Gooch.
‘To be honest, I have absolutely no idea,’ admits Weld.
Twenty
The drive from the Clements house to Foxcote Lodge takes less than two minutes. The young reporter has disappeared; for the moment, Tristan Hart has slipped off the front pages.
Gooch jumps out to open the gate and Weld drives through. In an area which would hold at least six cars, only one space is taken, by a Fiat 500. Weld parks alongside it, nose-up to a lichen-covered sundial. As she climbs from the car, she reads the motto carved around its face: Time brings all things to pass.
Foxcote Lodge is made beautiful by its imperfections, by centuries of additions to the original manor house in a mismatch of architectural styles. The black-and-white geometry of half-timbering butts up against rough-cut, rustic stone; the intricately patterned chimneys are in terracotta brick. A white butterfly rests on the mauve wisteria shading the arched oak door.
‘Wow,’ says Gooch. ‘This is what I’d buy if I won the lottery.’
Weld pulls a cast-iron handle, and somewhere in the house a bell jangles.
A young woman opens the door. She’s wearing black, and Weld wonders if that’s what passes for a nanny’s uniform these days.
Weld shows her warrant card.
‘Bridget Feahny?’
‘That’s me.’ Bridget holds the door open to let them in and leads them down a jute-carpeted hall. Inside, Weld’s expecting dark wood and dimness, but instead the house is made bright by skylights and floor-to-ceiling windows, by maplewood floors and walls emulsioned in a shade of luxuriant cream suggesting Farrow and Ball. The lodge feels welcoming and calm, as if it’s enjoyed centuries of happy occupation.
‘That’s a cool T-shirt,’ says Gooch to Bridget. ‘Nine Inch Nails, right? My boyfriend’s a big fan.’
‘Me and my boyfriend both,’ says Bridget. ‘We’re saving up to go and see them in New York.’
She leads them to a beamed living room, where Flora is sitting on a soft rug which invites the burying of toes, surrounded by toys. Yellow roses in a Chinese vase are dropping petals on the windowsill. Flora looks up at Weld and Gooch with curiosity, then holds up a piece of a half-completed puzzle. Bridget crouches to help Flora put the final pieces in place.
‘Done. You’re a little star, aren’t you? I think that deserves a treat. Shall you and I go and have a look in the biscuit tin, see if there’s anything in there?’ Flora nods, and Bridget takes her hand to encourage her to her feet. ‘Have a seat,’ says Bridget as she leaves.
Gooch is pleased to do so, stroking the silky sofa fabric and prodding a cushion to see what it’s stuffed with. Weld wanders over to the window and looks out on the view of lawns and statuary, and a pergola cascading with mauve wisteria.
Gooch is smiling with delight.
‘I’d so love a sofa like this,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t wait to tell my mum what this place is like.’
‘You’ve got a choice, sofa or deposit for a house,’ says Weld. ‘I’d go with the house.’
‘I’ve given her a gingerbread man and set her up in the playroom with a few episodes of Kipper,’ says Bridget as she returns, ‘but don’t for God’s sake tell anyone. I’m supposed to limit her screen time to thirty minutes a day. But then I’m not supposed to be here full-time, so hey ho.’
Slipping off her shoes, she curls herself into an armchair. There’s a paperback open face-down on an occasional table within easy reach, alongside an expensive-looking phone.
‘So. What can I do for you?’
Gooch is hunting in her bag for a pen to take notes.
‘We’d like to talk to you about what happened on Saturday,’ says Weld.
‘If you mean about the wedding, I wasn’t there. I don’t get invited places. I’m just the hired help.’
Weld checks Bridget’s expression, trying to ascertain whether she’s joking. The impression she’s had from Izzy is of a woman kind and anxious to help, but there’s an undeniable trace of sourness in Bridget’s voice.
‘This doesn’t look a bad place to work, to be honest,’ says Weld.
‘No, you’re right,’ says Bridget. ‘I’ve had worse. But my contract’s part-time. I have a life outside, you know? I’ve been stuck here for days now and I’m ready for a break.’
Gooch has found a pen, and is also tuned in to the tone
of what Bridget’s saying. Taking a cue from a subtle nod of Weld’s head, she asks, ‘How long have you worked for the family?’
Bridget shrugs. ‘Since Flora was born, pretty much. Tris thought Izzy was too fragile to look after a baby by herself, so he found me. Don’t get me wrong, I was only too happy about that, but nobody wants to be taken for granted, do they?’
‘In what way, taken for granted?’ asks Weld.
‘Oh, you know. Coming home a couple of hours later than you said you would. Forgetting to pay me on a Friday and asking if I can wait till Monday. Well, no, I can’t wait till Monday, because I haven’t got tens of thousands in the bank like they have. It’s just thoughtlessness. People like them forget how it feels to hurt for money. In her case, she’s never known in the first place.’
There’s a short silence. Weld’s remembering what Gooch said earlier about trying to escape the grimness of their flat, and finds she has some empathy with Bridget. She gives Gooch the nod again. Let the girl get some practice.
‘Could you run us through the events of Saturday?’ asks Gooch.
‘From my point of view?’ asks Bridget. ‘They all went off to the wedding, leaving me like Cinderella waiting to go and get Flora when they’d had enough of being parents and wanted to be free to enjoy themselves.’
‘Where were you waiting?’ asks Gooch. ‘Were you here?’
‘I drove over here about midday, got Flora ready in her bridesmaid’s dress. After they left I didn’t do much. I read a bit, watched TV, until Tristan rang.’
‘What time was that?’
Bridget shrugs again.
‘I dunno. About eight-thirty, maybe. Anyway, off I went and there he was, and he shocked me by giving me the keys to the big car, said they’d take the Fiat. You could have knocked me over with a feather. He’s never done that before. I thought he must have been drinking.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Tired. He’d been carrying Flora about. It’s no picnic, carrying a child her age, take it from me.’
‘Anything else you can remember about him?’
Bridget shakes her head.
‘Not really, no.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the car park while you were there?’
‘I can’t recall anyone, no. But as I was leaving, I was just concentrating on driving that great big tank, so I wasn’t really noticing anything.’
‘It’s a Range Rover, isn’t it?’ asks Weld. ‘Did you drive straight back here?’
Bridget looks at her.
‘Yes, I did. You won’t be finding me on any of your cameras, if that’s what you’re thinking. Flora was exhausted – too much heat and excitement – and she fell asleep as soon as I put her to bed.’
‘And then?’
‘And then they didn’t come home. Laura Ridley rang me about half past ten, told me what was going on and asked if I could stay, which I did. Didn’t have much choice really, did I? Laura sounded like she’d had a few so it wasn’t an option for her to come and babysit Flora. So I said I’d stay until Izzy could get back here, which she did on Sunday afternoon. That’s all I know.’
‘And how was she when she got back?’
‘How you’d expect. Exhausted. Upset. I gave her a big glass of wine which she looked like she needed.’
As Gooch is making notes, Weld asks, ‘Would you say they have a happy marriage?’
‘Perfect. Don’t you read Hello magazine? Their wedding was all over that.’
‘And in real life?’
‘Yeah, I’d say they’re happy. Far as I know, anyway.’
‘No rows?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. But you know what they say. Not in front of the help.’
‘No money worries, as far as you’re aware?’
Bridget gestures around the room. ‘If they had, they could always sell something.’
‘Are they popular in the village, as a family?’ asks Gooch.
‘They’re celebrities. People can’t get enough of them.’
‘And do you like them?’
‘She’s not my taste, but she’s OK. He’s OK too, he’s always been all right with me. But it’s not me you want to be asking, is it? You want to be asking whoever it was who hit him.’
‘And have you any idea who that might have been?’
‘None at all. Well, not really. I’ve been thinking about it, because who wouldn’t, and I wondered whether it might be some woman. You know, an affair that got out of hand.’
‘But you just said they’re happy in their marriage,’ says Weld.
‘I said they appear happy. The women round here treat Tris like George Clooney, and he’s a man, isn’t he? If someone were throwing themselves at him, would he say no? Mind you, it works both ways. He’s irresistible to the women, she has the same effect on the men. Half the blokes in Sterndale have got the major hots for her, tongues dangling on the floor and drooling like idiots. Even my Manzi isn’t immune, and he generally doesn’t go for skinny bints. I don’t know anything, mind. I’m only speculating.’
‘Would you speculate about anyone in particular?’
Bridget considers. ‘There’s Philly. Phyllida Gaze. She seems very interested in what’s going on and how Tris is doing. I mean, most people are interested, but she’s way over the top. Made me wonder whether she has a bit of a crush on him, or whether there’s something more.’
Gooch has made a note of the name. ‘Can you give us an address for Phyllida?’
‘You won’t need one, their house is easy to find. If you turn right opposite the White Lion and go a mile or so down that lane, you’ll find their place, a big, old stone house with horses in the field. Philly loves her horses almost as much as she loves her gin.’
‘And you really think her interest in Tristan has been out of the ordinary?’ asks Weld. ‘You must have had plenty of people asking after him, surely?’
‘Not to the extent she has. She even asked me if she should expect a visit from you guys.’
‘Did she? Why would she be expecting us?’
Bridget shrugs. ‘No idea, but then what would I know? I’m just the nanny, after all.’
‘So what did you make of Bridget Feahny?’ asks Weld, as she and Gooch get back in the car.
‘Not exactly what I’d want in a nanny,’ says Gooch, fastening her seat belt. ‘I think I’d be looking for someone – well, fluffier. But listening to Nine Inch Nails would knock the fluffiness out of anybody.’
Weld starts the engine. ‘Who the hell are the Nine Inch Nails, anyway?’
‘An industrial rock band. Not my taste at all. But that T-shirt she was wearing, did you notice what it said across the front? Grey would be the color if I had a heart. That’s a quote from one of their songs.’
‘What song?’
‘Something I Can Never Have.’
Twenty-one
Gooch persuades Weld they should eat lunch before visiting Phyllida Gaze, and they’re lucky to find a parking space right outside the Blue Moon café, which pleases Gooch because their lunchtime special sandwiches on the blackboard include local sausages with mustard and beef with horseradish and rocket.
They find a table outside, on a wide pavement with a view of the busy high street. When the waitress comes to take their order, Gooch goes with the beef, Weld with feta with roasted tomatoes and hummus.
When the food arrives, Gooch’s bread roll is overflowing with slices of meat.
‘You’re such a carnivore,’ says Weld. ‘Don’t you worry what it’s doing to your arteries?’
‘I’m too young to worry about stuff like that,’ says Gooch. ‘Besides, I need to keep my iron levels up.’
‘You could take a supplement.’ Weld bites into her salty cheese. ‘A multivitamin.’
‘That’s not the same, though, is it?’ suggest
s Gooch, chewing on a mouthful of her sandwich. ‘Red meat builds your muscles, keeps me fighting fit.’
‘Who are you planning on fighting? No one I know, I hope.’
‘In this job, you never know, do you? Shall we split a pecan brownie before we get on?’
Bridget was right: the Gaze house is easy to find, standing in isolation on a lane which winds through Sterndale’s outskirts and then into open country. Weld thinks it looks like an old vicarage - though there’s no church anywhere near – and it’s the kind of house that might feature in a period drama, with a drawing room and a wine cellar and a butler’s pantry below stairs. Most of the outbuildings are still being used as stables, and a trio of handsome horses are grazing in a paddock, their tails flicking away flies in the shade of a spreading oak.
Gooch reads the brass nameplate as they drive between the stone gateposts: Beacon House.
‘This isn’t bad either,’ she says. ‘How many lottery wins for this?’
‘Forget it,’ says Weld. ‘Would you really want to do all that cleaning?’
‘I bet they have staff.’
‘Exactly.’
There are two cars parked in front of the house, an old-fashioned silver Jaguar and a black Volvo estate. As Weld pulls up alongside the Jaguar, a liver-and-white spaniel trots towards them from round the side of the house, wagging her tail. Gooch gets out to stroke the dog, and Weld’s taking a moment to check a message which has just pinged her phone, when a tall, thin woman appears.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman looks born and bred to this place – especially in her navy jodhpurs and riding boots – but Weld knows that’s by no means a given in this area which attracts the wealthy from across the whole country, especially the overpriced south-east. But her accent is as far back as minor royalty, suggesting she might be the real thing.
Weld shows her warrant card. ‘West Mercia Police. We’re looking for Phyllida Gaze.’
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