Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  ‘Oh. That’s me. I think you’d better come in.’

  Philly leads the policewomen from the front door right through the house, checking behind herself as they go in case her boots are leaving marks on the carpets. Normally she’d never wear boots in the house, but she feels it would put her at a disadvantage to leave them at the door and be in stockinged feet while they’re properly shod.

  The study’s not a room they normally use for visitors, but it’s tucked away at the back of the house and not overlooked. Jerry’s left it rather messy, with paperwork scattered haphazardly on the desk, and a heap of outdated newspapers on the floor beside the comfy armchair, but that can’t be helped. In their line of work, she’s sure these women have seen far worse than this.

  ‘Please, sit down.’ She watches Weld take the office chair while Gooch lowers herself into the armchair, and wonders if she should offer them tea. Far better not: tea will delay them too long. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’re here to ask you some questions about the assault on Tristan Savage,’ says Weld.

  ‘Savage?’

  ‘You probably know him as Tristan Hart.’

  ‘Is that his real name, then, Savage? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you should. Do you mind if I call you Phyllida?’

  ‘Just Philly is fine.’

  ‘Can you outline for me the nature of your relationship with Tristan, then, Philly?’

  ‘Relationship? We don’t have a relationship. Not beyond being casual friends, as a couple. Me and Jerry, him and Isabel. Izzy, she’s known as, but I’m sure you knew that.’ Philly senses Weld watching her and smiles to show she’s relaxed. ‘It’s such a terrible business, isn’t it? Do you have any idea yet who did it? Though I don’t suppose you’d tell me if you had.’

  Weld notes Philly’s smile, which seems slightly off-key, given the seriousness of Tristan’s condition. Beyond the study door, a floorboard creaks.

  ‘I don’t suppose I would,’ says Weld. ‘The thing is, your name has been mentioned to us as someone who may have been close to Tristan.’

  ‘Close to him? Who on earth has said that? Close in what way?’

  ‘Have you tried to make contact with Tristan’s family since the assault?’

  ‘Make contact? What do you mean? I’ve rung the house, of course. Hasn’t everyone? I was hoping to get news of how he is, but no one answered. I’m sure they’ve much better things to do than answer the phone, though I don’t imagine it would kill Bridget to pick up the receiver every now and again.’

  ‘You mean Bridget Feahny?’

  ‘Yes, Flora’s nanny. She’s in the house most of the time, and I suppose they’re paying her plenty to be there, so you might think . . . Oh, wait a moment. She sent you here, didn’t she? The little madam. What has she been saying, exactly?’

  ‘So you have rung the house. How many times?’

  ‘I might have rung twice, since no one answered the first time. It’s not a crime, surely, to be concerned for one’s friends?’

  ‘No one’s suggesting it is. Would you say the Savages are happily married?’

  ‘How should I know? They certainly seem so.’

  ‘And you, Philly – are you happily married?’

  ‘Blissfully, thank you, for more years than I care to count. But what does the state of my marriage have to do with anything?’

  ‘So just to be clear, you know Tristan only socially?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when he comes round from his coma, he’ll confirm that, will he?’

  ‘I should bloody well hope he will. It’s the truth. What are you suggesting, exactly?’

  Weld shakes her head. ‘I’m suggesting nothing at all. We’re just trying to establish the facts in the case.’

  ‘Well, the facts are Tristan and I are friends, and not even close friends, to be frank.’

  ‘And yet you phoned the house twice to have news of him? Most people would just have left a message or sent a card. Did you have a particular reason for being anxious about his condition?’

  ‘I wasn’t anxious, I was merely concerned.’

  Weld leaves a silence, but Philly doesn’t speak. Instead, she glances at her watch.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to get on. My husband will be needing my help.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Weld, as she and Gooch stand. ‘Let me give you my card. If you do think of anything, maybe you’d give me a call.’

  Philly opens the door. A man is there, balding, fine-featured. If he weren’t so scruffily dressed, Weld might take him for a lawyer.

  ‘Jerry!’ Philly puts her hand on her chest, as if calming her heart. ‘For God’s sake, you frightened me half to death. What on earth are you doing, standing there like some kind of wraith?’

  Jerry looks at Weld and Gooch. ‘Good afternoon. I came to see if you ladies might be wanting some tea.’

  ‘Actually, they’re just leaving,’ says Philly, and she leads Weld and Gooch to the scullery door.

  When they’re gone, Jerry follows Philly into the kitchen.

  ‘Shall we have some tea, then?’ she asks, carrying the kettle to the tap. ‘Since you mentioned it.’

  Standing at the centre of the quarry-tiled floor, Jerry is clenching his fists. ‘I presume that was the police. You did promise me, you know.’

  Philly turns back from the sink. ‘Promise you what?’

  ‘That you wouldn’t do this any more.’

  Philly switches off the tap. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Is he something to you, Philly? Is that why they were here?’

  Philly turns to face him.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jerry. I had a feeling you would think that. A man like him would never look at an old woman like me.’

  Jerry’s face falls into sadness. ‘So you’ll be faithful now, will you? Now that you’re too old to have your pick?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. For heaven’s sake, Jerry. I gave you my word, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, yes,’ says Jerry. ‘But I’m afraid when it comes to promises, your track record isn’t too good, is it, old girl? Don’t bother making tea for me. I’ve things to do outside in the yard.’

  Twenty-two

  Muir is preparing to leave at a time which is early for him, though many in the office have already gone. Closing his office door, he walks towards the exit, raises a hand to Nate Golding, who’s still at his desk.

  ‘’Night, Nate. Have a good one.’

  ‘Do you have a moment, Boss?’

  Really, Muir doesn’t, but that’s hard to say to a man putting in more hours than he is.

  ‘If you can make it quick.’

  ‘Very quick,’ says Golding. ‘But I think you’ll find it interesting.’

  As Muir crosses the office, Golding’s lining up another piece of video footage.

  ‘I’ve got a court booked in an hour,’ says Muir. ‘I haven’t played this guy in a while, so I’m expecting a good thrashing. I’m hoping to get a few minutes’ warm-up before he arrives. The last thing I need is to pull a hamstring.’

  ‘It’s a small thing, really,’ concedes Golding. ‘It could wait till tomorrow if you’d rather.’

  ‘No, come on, let’s see it. You’ve found it, least I can do is find a minute to look at it.’

  ‘It’s the video the soldier shot at the wedding,’ says Golding. ‘Kirstie sent me the guy’s contact details and he was good as gold, emailed it through by return. It’s only thirty seconds in total, but what you need to watch is who’s in the background.’

  He hits play, and there’s Tristan reliving the moment, arm around Simon Fisher, giving what sounds like a sincere speech to Simon’s mates in Iraq. But Golding freezes him mid-sentence, and points with a pencil at the screen. In the background, a man is m
oving closer to hear better what Tristan is saying. The look on his face is cynical malice, so pronounced he could be about to heckle or call bullshit.

  ‘Recognise him?’

  Muir peers at the screen.

  ‘Is that the same guy?’

  Golding nods.

  ‘Same guy who was talking to him in the car park. No love lost there, is there?’

  ‘There certainly isn’t,’ says Muir. He pats Golding on his bulky shoulder. ‘Good work, Nate. Now pack up and be done for the day. That family of yours needs you every bit as much as we do.’

  Izzy’s home from the hospital earlier than she’s been the last couple of nights. Steph is still keen to play nurse-in-charge, and if that’s what she wants to do, Izzy’s content to let her do so, knowing she has childcare responsibilities at home.

  Flora’s sitting at the kitchen table, colouring a picture of a fairy amongst what are now technicolour flowers. When Izzy kisses the top of her head, she looks up and smiles.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Bridget’s gathering up her stuff, her phone and that book she’s still reading. ‘You look really peaky.’

  Izzy pours herself a glass of iced water from the fridge door dispenser.

  ‘I’ve got a headache. Dehydration, probably. There’s nothing to do there but drink coffee. All that caffeine doesn’t agree with me.’

  ‘You’re starting to look too thin. You should eat something. Sorry there’s not much in the fridge. We didn’t go shopping today. You could order in a pizza.’

  The thought of melted cheese turns Izzy’s stomach.

  ‘I’ll find something.’

  ‘Do you want me to make you a drink? You know, a proper drink? There’s lime if you want a vodka.’

  ‘Really, I’m fine.’

  ‘The police came to see me today,’ says Bridget.

  Izzy glances over to be sure Flora’s focused on her colouring. ‘Really? What did they say?’

  Bridget shrugs. ‘They just asked about the day of the wedding, what time you went out, stuff like that. It felt like they were ticking boxes, to be honest. I presume they’ve already spoken to you?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you,’ says Izzy. ‘A detective came to see me at the hospital yesterday.’

  ‘And?’

  Izzy glances again at Flora, who’s engrossed in choosing between a turquoise pen and magenta. ‘She said someone hit him with a champagne bottle.’

  ‘Oh my God. Who would do that?’

  Izzy pours herself more water. ‘They don’t know.’

  ‘What, no clues at all?’

  ‘I think they have clues. They have the pieces of the bottle, at least, so I suppose they’ll check those for fingerprints. She said she’d keep me updated.’

  ‘And how’s Tris doing? What are the doctors saying?’

  Izzy shakes her head, grabs a tissue from the box and dabs at her eyes. ‘Oh, Bridget. Sorry, look at me, I’m a mess. They say it’s too early to know.’

  ‘Too early to know what?’

  ‘Whether he’ll recover.’

  Bridget’s expression is of disbelief. Crossing to Izzy, she puts an arm around her shoulder. ‘Ah, come on now, there’s no need to be upset. If they think there’s any doubt about him getting better, they just don’t know our Tris, and that’s a fact.’

  The light midsummer evenings are long when you’re spending them alone. Izzy does her best to be upbeat with Flora’s bedtime routine, but Flora seems a little out of sorts herself, and falls asleep before her story’s even halfway through.

  Izzy spends a few minutes tidying the room, placing a teddy back on the armchair with Flora’s soft toy menagerie, finding space for the book they’ve been reading on the bookshelves.

  The Squirrels Who Squabbled, she notices, isn’t there, and after a quick search, she decides to ask Bridget where it’s gone.

  But there’s no need. As she bends to give Flora a last goodnight kiss, a corner of the book’s cover shows under the pillow, and when Izzy gently pulls it out, it comes with Tris’s reading glasses in their case.

  She strokes Flora’s head. Maybe she doesn’t talk enough to Flora about how she’s missing Daddy, and could she be missing Mummy, too? A thought touches the back of Izzy’s mind, that maybe Flora isn’t happy with Bridget, but Flora’s always loved Bridget, so why should that change now? This sudden and unwelcome upheaval is good for none of them. Flora will settle down again as soon as Daddy’s home.

  But when will that be?

  There are hours of daylight still left. Downstairs in the lounge, she tries to relax, but the pages of her magazine don’t hold her attention. She starts to watch a film – a romcom Tris would hate – but her focus comes and goes. Pausing the DVD to analyse why, she expects the answer simply to be her worry over Tris.

  But that’s not it.

  What’s needling her is what she’s found on that damn phone.

  Twenty-three

  When her phone rings, Weld’s getting out of the shower. Wrapping her hair in a towel, she runs to the bedside table to answer it, and sees Muir’s number in the display.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning. Sorry to be so early.’

  ‘No worries. What’s up?’

  ‘It’s about this Murray Roe interview, the one in Stroud,’ says Muir. ‘I’ve decided I’ll take that. Nate can go with me.’

  ‘Nate?’

  ‘He’s been doing some great work lately, but he’s becoming too office-bound. I think getting out and about would do him good. I don’t want him thinking we’re taking him for granted.’

  ‘OK . . .’ says Weld slowly.

  ‘You were going down there with Gooch, weren’t you?’

  ‘That was the plan.’

  ‘I’m reassigning you both for this morning. I want Gooch to go back to the hotel and talk to the staff there. Tell her to arrange for statements to be taken if she finds anyone with anything interesting to say.’

  ‘By herself?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. Meantime, I want you to oversee the video interviews with the two youngsters who reported the assault, make sure it’s all handled properly and that the right questions get asked. After that you’d better switch horses for a couple of hours and see how we’re getting on with that post office robbery from last week. We’re in danger of dropping the ball on that one. I’m calling a team meeting at four p.m. so you can give me an update then. All clear?’

  ‘Absolutely clear.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you later.’

  ‘See you this afternoon. Drive safely.’

  There’ll be no records broken, but the temperature for the next couple of days is forecast to be hot, just how Muir likes it. Golding, however, is struggling. Muir’s got the air-con on full blast and Golding’s removed his jacket and loosened his tie, but his face is still an alarming shade of red, and sheened with perspiration.

  Ten minutes into the drive, Muir pulls into a service station and puts in an unneeded twenty pounds’ worth of fuel. Inside the kiosk, he picks up two bottles of water.

  ‘Here you go,’ he says, as he gets back inside the car. He hands a bottle to Golding and takes a drink himself. ‘We have to keep ourselves hydrated. I sweated buckets in my game last night, and I took a pasting so I can’t even say it was worth it.’

  Golding looks at the bottle as if he doesn’t know what it is.

  ‘I don’t drink much of this stuff,’ he says. ‘I prefer something with some flavour, a Coke or a Pepsi.’

  ‘That’s better for you, in the long run.’ Muir pulls back out into the traffic and is guided by the satnav on to the A49. Reluctantly, Golding drinks. ‘How’s everything at home, Nate?’

  Golding fiddles with the air-con controls, trying to persuade more cold air out of it.

  ‘Not so bad,’ he says. �
�Chrissie’s all right, really. She gets a bit down sometimes, when she starts thinking why her, but that’s just how things have turned out, isn’t it? Easy for me to say, I know. She’s at that age now where she should be starting to have boyfriends and be going out with her mates, but that doesn’t seem to be happening for her.’

  ‘But she does have friends?’

  ‘Yes, she’s got friends. But she feels self-conscious about the way she is. Peggy tells her she needs to find some uglier mates, make herself look good. I wish she wouldn’t say it. I really don’t think it helps.’

  ‘Anything new on the medical front?’

  Golding shakes his head.

  ‘Not really. They keep talking about an operation to improve her hearing, but that’s never come to pass. So we just soldier on. The thing with cerebral palsy is that it doesn’t actually get worse, so that’s a blessing.’

  ‘She’s not in any pain, though?’

  Golding stares out of the window.

  ‘She’s always in pain, poor lamb. It’s just that she’s learned to deal with it.’

  ‘But they can give her something for that, surely?’

  ‘Up to a point. But most of the painkillers they prescribe have side effects and some of them are addictive. Besides, who wants to take painkillers for the rest of their life? Even if it’s not a very long life.’

  Muir’s regretting now he raised the subject. They lapse into silence for a few minutes, during which Muir is pleased to see Golding sip his water.

  As they join the A40, Muir asks, ‘Any suggestions on how to tackle this guy?’

  Golding shrugs. ‘I’d ask him first if he spoke to Tristan, see if he volunteers it. If he lies about it, we’ll know he’s got something to hide. We can hit him with the video then.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. Maybe he’ll be upfront and say he was just being friendly.’

  ‘Maybe he will, but I don’t think Tristan was keen on being friendly in return.’

  On the face of it, Murray Roe seems a nice enough bloke. He suggests they might sit outside – an idea Golding agrees to with alacrity, hoping for a breeze. Roe leads them to a table and chairs under a parasol which shades most of the mid-terraced house’s small garden, which is what Muir, if he were being generous, would describe as minimalist – a stretch of block paving with high fences dividing them from neighbours on both sides.