Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  Roe’s wife – who Gail Clements named as Fiona – strikes Muir as dour and humourless, with deep lines at the bridge of her nose from years of frowning her discontent. Her long hair is dyed ash grey – a colour which does nothing to lift the sallowness of her skin – and the peppermint she’s sucking might sweeten her breath, but it isn’t dispelling the reek of cigarette smoke from her clothes.

  She offers cold drinks, and Golding immediately asks for a Coke. Muir opts for water and Roe asks for a beer, which Muir thinks is an interesting choice before lunch. Plainly Fiona thinks so too, and she flashes him a look which urges caution. Is she thinking it will loosen his tongue, make him in some way indiscreet? If so, she heads it off at the pass; the bottle she brings him is well-chilled and tempting, but it contains alcohol-free beer.

  As she goes back inside, she pulls the sliding French door to, though Muir notices there’s a window open in the kitchen which means she’ll hear everything that’s being said, if she so chooses. Roe doesn’t comment on the beer, but takes a long drink. He looks well-fed to the point of high blood pressure – a man on the same road as Golding, unless he takes care – and if you were judging by appearances, you’d take him for a stockbroker or banker. Yet this modest house on this down-at-heel street strongly suggests he’s not, or at least not any more; the fact he’s home during office hours implies he may not be anything at all, though he looks too young – just – to be retired.

  Muir decides Roe’s career or lack of one might be a good place to start.

  ‘No work today?’ he asks, lightly.

  ‘I’m between jobs at the moment.’

  ‘What line are you in, Mr Roe?’ asks Golding, assuming the same tone of polite just-asking as Muir.

  ‘By profession, I’m in marketing,’ says Roe. ‘But the company I was working for folded, showed us all the door. When you get to a certain age, it’s not as easy as it used to be to get into something new.’

  Muir wonders how long ago it was that Roe was laid off. No need to ask that question now, but they might come back to it.

  ‘The reason we’re here, as you probably know,’ Golding is saying, ‘is pretty much routine. We’re talking to everyone who was at the wedding on Saturday where Tristan Hart was assaulted. We’re trying to find anyone who saw anything, or who had contact with Mr Hart at that event.’

  Roe drinks more beer. ‘Mr Hart? Don’t you mean Mr Savage?’

  ‘I think Hart’s the name most people would know him by,’ says Golding.

  ‘We’ve always known him as Savage, and we used to know him pretty well,’ says Roe. ‘He was married to my step-sister, Dolly. They got divorced, what, probably over a decade ago now. Anyway, what makes you so sure he was assaulted? Tris is a man who likes a drink. In fact, I’d go so far as to say Tris loves a drink. Quite possible, I’d have thought, he’d fall down and hurt himself. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

  Golding looks up from his notes. ‘So did you speak to Mr Hart – Mr Savage – at the wedding?’

  Roe leans back in his chair and gives a broad smile, not hurrying to answer, giving himself time, Muir thinks, to decide what he wants to say.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did. I spotted him outside, thought I’d go over and say hello for old times’ sake.’

  ‘Did you have the impression he’d been drinking at that point?’

  ‘Hard to say with him. He’s had years of practice at looking sober when he’s not.’

  ‘And what did you say to him, exactly?’

  ‘I just asked him how life was treating him. Not that I didn’t know. Plainly he’s doing OK. He asked after Fiona and I invited him to join us for a drink, but he never did. That was it, really.’

  Golding takes out his phone and finds the relevant video.

  ‘This is you, then?’

  Roe watches the clip to its end.

  ‘That’s me. I wondered whether there might be cameras. Surveillance everywhere in this country, these days.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me for saying,’ says Muir, ‘but Mr Savage doesn’t look too pleased to see you. Can you explain why that might be?’

  ‘A ghost from the past, intruding on his new life, I suppose. Maybe he didn’t want wife number two to know about me. He didn’t suggest introducing her, anyway.’

  ‘So when Mr Savage recovers consciousness and we show him this video, is his account of the conversation going to match yours?’

  For a moment, Roe looks uncertain, before shrugging a show of indifference.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Is he going to recover, then? There are hints in the press he might have permanent brain damage. Someone must have really meant to hurt him. Poor old Tris.’

  ‘But that someone wasn’t you?’

  ‘Should I have a lawyer present? No, of course it wasn’t me. I hadn’t seen him in years. What possible reason could I have for hurting him? More to the point, how would I have been able to afford champagne to do it with?’

  ‘We’d like a statement from you, if you wouldn’t mind,’ says Muir.

  ‘Be glad to,’ says Roe. ‘Anything at all I can do to help. You can’t help but feel sorry for that lovely wife of his, can you?’

  ‘Maybe we could take your statement now,’ says Golding. ‘Or you’re welcome to attend a police station, if you prefer.’

  ‘I’m happy to do it now. Nothing else on, as you can see.’

  Golding, as always, is painstaking in his statement-taking, insisting on writing down in his careful handwriting all the small details which made up Golding’s meeting with Tristan. Beyond the fence, a lawnmower drones. Inside the house, a kitchen tap is running, the waste trickling into a drain overgrown with weeds.

  Muir is happy to sit quietly, observing Roe, watching for any signs he’s holding back or not telling the truth. From what he can see, his story stands up. The only question is, was there more to his involvement with Tristan that afternoon than the short meeting they have on video?

  When the statement’s finished, Golding reads it aloud for Roe’s approval. The kitchen, Muir notices, is now silent. Roe shrugs his agreement to the account he’s given and signs it with a flourish. His signature is elegant, the hand of an educated man, one used to dealing with significant documents.

  As Muir and Golding stand up from the table, Fiona appears and offers to show them out, and Roe seems pleased to let her, settling back to finish the last of his beer.

  Golding is already outside the front door and Muir is about to follow him when Fiona touches his arm. She’s holding out a slip of paper.

  ‘You need to talk to Dolly,’ she whispers. ‘She’ll tell you how it was with Tristan.’

  Muir takes the piece of paper and looks at her for an explanation.

  But Fiona shakes her head and glances uneasily behind her. Muir takes the hint, and doesn’t look back as he leaves.

  Golding is waiting with his jacket slung over his shoulder, sweat stains marking the underarms of his shirt. Muir unlocks the car, and as they climb in, Golding lets out a sigh of relief to be sitting down again. A bulging vein is pulsing in his neck.

  ‘This heat,’ he says. ‘It really does for me.’

  Muir is reading the slip of paper Fiona’s given him. ‘Mrs Roe seemed very insistent we should talk to her sister-in-law, and rather anxious Mr Roe didn’t know she was suggesting it. Tristan’s ex-wife, Dolly Blythe. Sounds like someone from the good old days of musical theatre.’

  ‘Might be another stage name,’ suggests Golding. ‘Birds of a feather.’

  ‘Could be. But since this address isn’t a major detour on our way back, I think we’ll follow Mrs Roe’s suggestion and pay her a visit.’

  At a garage along the road, Muir pulls in for a comfort break and to buy more water. Golding takes advantage of the stop to buy a sandwich and crisps, which he eats as they begin the drive back.
/>   ‘What did you make of Murray Roe?’ asks Muir, as he makes the turn for Gloucester.

  ‘He’s not being straight with us,’ says Golding. ‘I think what he told us was the truth, as far as he went, but he was too careful in what he said, and a bit cocky, like he knew he was getting one over on us.’

  ‘I think Fiona Roe’s actions confirm the truth of that. She thinks we should know something he wants kept quiet. The only problem is, how do we know what questions to ask Dolly Blythe?’

  ‘We’ll just keep it broad, see if she opens up. If you like, I’ll have a look into Mr Roe’s finances when we get back, see if there’s anything there. He’s plainly fallen on hard times, and he might easily have been asking Tristan for money. If he met with a refusal, maybe he took it hard.’

  ‘Hard enough to be violent?’

  ‘Possibly. He’s a man who likes a beer before lunchtime, so there’s no question he’d have been drinking at the wedding. A momentary loss of temper, maybe? And did you notice he knew about the weapon? I don’t think we’ve released to the press that Tristan was hit with a champagne bottle.’

  ‘We haven’t,’ confirms Muir. ‘That was an error on his part. I agree there’s more he could tell us.’

  ‘Do you think he could be our man?’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t rule it out,’ says Muir.

  Twenty-four

  Contact lenses are the number one daily-use item Laura would hate to be without, and she doesn’t mind the regular check-ups that go with a proper eye-health regime. But Russ, the optician, is too inclined to chat, and the overrun from the previous customer combined with his reluctance to let Laura leave without twice repeating the benefits of a new – more expensive – lens care product, has made her late for her appointment at the hairdresser’s.

  Still, as she – slightly breathless – pushes open the door, the hot, scented air announces sanctuary, the sacred space of women practising the rituals of beauty, and she feels herself relax.

  Sophie, the pretty receptionist, gives her a vacuous smile, as if she’s never seen Laura before.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m late for my appointment with Debbie.’ She glances across the salon, to where Debbie is blow-drying a woman’s freshly coloured hair.

  ‘What name is it?’

  ‘Laura, Laura Ridley.’

  Sophie makes a show of scrolling through the screen listing the day’s appointments, until finally she nods.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she says. ‘Debbie will be with you in a moment.’

  Laura’s been so flustered at being late that she hasn’t noticed a woman in the waiting area, flicking through a weeks-old copy of Bella. Only as she bends to choose a magazine for herself does she realise who it is.

  ‘Is that you, Karen?’

  Karen Garner looks up: tired eyes, dark roots on her honey hair.

  ‘Oh, hi, Laura! How are you?’ Karen puts the stress on the last word, almost an Americanism, though Sterndale’s in her blood; her father still runs sheep up on the hills.

  ‘I’m fine. How’s Dave doing?’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right. Working, as always. They’re still doing that job on the leisure centre. As a matter of fact, I was just talking about you. Well, texting.’ She indicates a mobile on the magazine table. ‘I was saying you would know, and here you are.’

  Laura sits. ‘Know what?’

  ‘What the police are up to. My cousin works in the kitchens at the hotel, and he says the police are there again this morning. He’s heard they’re close to an arrest.’

  ‘News to me.’

  Across the salon, Debbie turns off the hairdryer, and the salon falls into the closest it gets to silence, Kiss FM in the background and the splash of water in a basin.

  ‘Had you heard that, Debbie?’ calls Karen.

  Debbie and her client look across.

  ‘That they’re close to an arrest in the Tristan business. So my cousin says.’

  Debbie shakes her beautifully groomed head. ‘I didn’t know that. I’ve heard they think it was a woman.’

  ‘Who’s told you that?’ asks Laura.

  ‘Angie in the café,’ says Debbie.

  ‘What woman?’ asks Sophie, and Debbie shrugs.

  ‘Pound to a penny he was shagging somebody,’ says Karen. ‘Wish it was me.’ She catches Laura’s look of disapproval. ‘Sorry. But he is fit, though, isn’t he?’

  ‘Ah, don’t,’ says Debbie, going through her client’s hair with a comb and scissors. ‘Izzy’s lovely, and I don’t think he’s the cheating kind.’

  ‘They’re all the cheating kind,’ says Karen. ‘Take it from me.’

  ‘They’ve been to interview Philly,’ says Debbie. She chooses a product from an array on a shelf, and sprays grapefruit-scented mist on her client’s hair.

  ‘How do you know that?’ puts in Laura.

  ‘Bit old for him, isn’t she?’ asks Karen.

  ‘They’re interviewing everyone who was at the wedding, surely?’ says Laura. ‘I expect that’s what they were doing at the hotel.’

  ‘They haven’t interviewed me,’ says Karen.

  ‘Nor me,’ says Debbie, leading her client to the reception desk to pay.

  Nor me, thinks Laura, as Debbie helps her into a black gown.

  Karen’s stylist takes her to the basins at the back, and Laura sits down in Debbie’s chair. For a few minutes they chat about Laura’s hair, highlights and lowlights, how much to take off the ends. When Debbie disappears to mix the colour, Laura’s left facing the mirror, looking into her own eyes.

  Could it be true the police are looking for a woman? Is Tris’s attacker among them here in Sterndale, maybe someone she knows, even one of her neighbours or friends?

  The idea is ludicrous. As she crosses the salon to find herself the latest copy of Grazia, Laura puts it out of her mind.

  Two hours later, she meets Karen again, waiting to book another appointment while Sophie takes an incoming call.

  ‘You look great,’ she says, and appears to mean it, though a compliment from Karen often carries a sting in the tail.

  But there’s no sting today.

  ‘Is Aidan picking you up?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ says Laura, ‘why would he be? He’s at work, and I enjoy the walk.’

  Karen lifts one eyebrow in that way she has, drawing attention to how much darker it is than her now uniformly coloured hair.

  ‘I just saw him, that was all. Coming out of the bank.’ She turns and points to Lloyds across the street.

  ‘We don’t bank at Lloyds,’ says Laura.

  Sophie’s hanging up the phone.

  ‘Oh,’ says Karen. ‘I would have sworn it was him. Imagine him having a doppelgänger in a tiny place like this. Can you book me in for the first week in August, please, Sophie, just before we go away?’

  Twenty-five

  The fastest route to the address Fiona Roe gave Muir is via Ross-on-Wye. Beyond that, they travel through countryside, to a village picturesque enough to have a coach park for visiting tourists.

  There are coaches parked there now, from Birmingham and Kettering and one on tour from Germany. Muir finds a tight space in a crowded car park, and sends Golding to the machine for a ticket.

  He comes back grumbling about the expense. ‘At that price,’ he complains, ‘you’d think they’d be including a free car wash.’

  They walk down the village’s main street, passing buildings of mellow stone, roofed in terracotta pantiles, with Georgian shop fronts glazed in bottle-bottom glass. Beyond a gallery offering hand-thrown ceramics, Muir spots a sign hanging out over the pavement: Nuance Dress Agency.

  ‘That’s us.’

  Both men stoop to pass under the low doorway. Inside, racks of second-hand women’s clothes are artfully arranged by colour,
blues, pinks, reds and greens shaded dark to light. Around the walls are shelves of handbags, shoes and scarves, and a sign offering a rental service for special occasion hats. The merchandise is attractive, but a background smell of mustiness isn’t quite defeated by the strong vanilla scent of a reed diffuser. In the background, Eva Cassidy is singing quietly, but not quietly enough for Muir, whose taste is for Oasis and the Smiths.

  At the back of the shop is a desk in polished walnut, where an antique cash register stands alongside a credit card processing machine and a vase of yellow dahlias.

  The woman seated behind the desk gives them a welcoming smile.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Muir and Golding show their warrant cards.

  ‘We’re looking for Dolly Blythe,’ says Muir.

  ‘That’s me.’ Dolly must once have been quite beautiful and is very attractive still: a natural-looking blonde, slender, elegantly dressed in cashmere and linen, no doubt cleverly chosen from her own stock. Muir has seen pictures of Izzy Savage, and decides Tristan has a type. Lucky man, that such women will entertain him. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’

  ‘Do you have somewhere private where we could talk?’

  ‘We could go in the office.’

  Dolly leads Muir and Golding up an awkward staircase to a low-ceilinged room above, where clothes are stacked in boxes and a large table holds a sewing machine and a scattering of needlework tools. By the window, facing out on to the busy street, are a Chesterfield sofa upholstered in poppy-red fabric, and a pair of Chippendale-style carver chairs in need of new varnish.

  ‘Have a seat,’ says Dolly. ‘Enjoy our lovely view.’

  She sits down in one of the armchairs, stretching out her bare legs and showing bony feet in pale suede ballet flats. Muir takes the second chair, and Golding’s pleased to have the sofa. Finding his notebook, he writes the date and time at the top of a fresh page.

  ‘So, enlighten me,’ says Dolly. ‘What business does the constabulary have with little old me?’