‘Which has never squared with Murray Roe and Dolly Blythe’s views of him.’
‘Secret drinker?’
Muir shrugs. ‘Who knows? The bad news with the glasses is there’ll be no fingerprints if they’ve been in water since last weekend. Why dump them in the pool, though?’
‘Fear of fingerprints, maybe? Or just the easiest place to get rid of them?’
‘Maybe the easiest, but not the smartest. If you took them back to the marquee, they’d be scooped up by a waiter, into the dishwasher and gone forever.’
‘So they might easily be nothing whatever to do with the assault,’ suggests Weld. ‘They could easily have been dropped there by a loved-up couple later in the week.’
Muir shakes his head. ‘Nothing’s straightforward, is it? If we want to be bold, we might speculate they point to a pre-arranged liaison, but we need to be very careful not to rely on that as proven before it actually is.’
‘But do you think it’s enough to suggest we focus for a while on women rather than men?’
‘With the progress we’re not making on this one, I see no reason why not. Send them straight to Evidence for logging in when Gooch gets back. I can’t see any point in putting them through forensics with the time they’ve been immersed. What time’s our train?’
‘I booked us on the nine thirty-three, so we should get going pretty soon. We’ll probably hit traffic, this time of the morning.’
‘Give me a few minutes to make a phone call and I’ll be ready to go. And if I’m not mistaken, I think it’s your turn to drive.’
At the hospital, Izzy feels a touch of coolness in the welcome she receives from Steph and Eamon. No doubt they’re thinking she hasn’t been in contact enough over the weekend.
At first glance, Tris seems the same, unearthly in his stillness. But there is change; in his face, the bones are more prominent, suggesting he’s losing weight, and his skin is becoming smoother, waxier. Though she’s angry enough to punch him, she leans down to kiss his cheek, and is taken aback by how cool it is.
Eamon offers her his chair, and she sits down at the bedside to take Tris’s hand.
‘Why don’t you get us a coffee, Eamon?’ suggests Steph, and he seems pleased at the suggestion, no doubt glad to escape for a few minutes the stifling atmosphere of the ICU.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Steph, when Eamon’s gone. Steph herself doesn’t look all right; she looks worn down with lack of sleep, and the make-up she’s put on in what must have been bad light – too bright or too dark – is garish on her face, a sad attempt at a healthy glow from a woman dying inside.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Izzy, feeling emboldened – now she’s no longer so in thrall to Tris – to be straightforward with this woman she’s always been so wary of upsetting or offending.
To her surprise, Steph seems to sag in her seat, and Izzy sees that the effort of playing the competent matriarch is taking a heavy toll. Steph’s head drops as she shakes with silent sobs, and Izzy finds Steph’s tears provoke her own. She moves around the bed and, crouching beside Steph’s chair, puts her arm around her mother-in-law’s shoulders.
‘I can’t bear it,’ Steph is saying. ‘My baby, my baby! Why won’t he wake up? I’ve begged him and begged him but he doesn’t hear me.’ Her face stricken, she looks up at Izzy. ‘Please, you try. He might listen to you. Tell him to wake up. Tell him he mustn’t leave us.’
‘I’ve told him a thousand times,’ says Izzy, brushing away her tears. ‘You’re his mother, Steph. He’s always listened to you far more than me.’
Steph grasps Izzy’s hand, squeezing it so tight that it hurts.
‘He really loves you, Izzy, you and Flora. He’d never do anything to hurt you. You do know that, don’t you?’
Too late for such reassurances: some damage is already done. Even so, Izzy wants to believe Steph is right, and that somehow, when Tris wakes up, everything that’s happened, everything she’s learned will be explained away, and their world will be reset, back to the days before she knew about Tina and Fairview.
But in the cold, white light of the ICU, she knows that’s only wishful thinking.
Izzy hands Steph a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet intended for the patient’s belongings, but all Tris’s needs are being met by tubes and pumps and machines. Life support, as Steph provided when she was carrying him, decades ago.
She dries her eyes and blows her nose. Izzy rises to her feet, touching Steph on the shoulder as she does so.
‘I know it’s hard,’ says Izzy, ‘but we have to stay strong.’
‘I know,’ says Steph, and she’s grateful Izzy’s there, especially when the black thought strikes her that what they’re sharing is not an outpouring of love for Tristan, but a spilling over of grief.
Eamon’s here with coffees in a cardboard carrying tray. As the door begins to close behind him, he looks back, and holds it open with his foot for the man following him: the consultant, Ian Talbot.
Eamon and Mr Talbot arrive at the bedside together. Steph feels the doctor’s assessing eye pass over herself and Izzy, and sees he knows they’ve been crying. A week ago, she’d have been embarrassed. Now, she doesn’t give a damn.
Mr Talbot addresses himself to Izzy as next-of-kin, but Steph appreciates that with his glances in her and Eamon’s directions, he means to include them. He asks Izzy to join him for a chat, and Steph’s heart hurts at the exclusion. How is it possible she isn’t first in line for information where it’s her son – her son – who’s under discussion?
But even though Steph knows she probably doesn’t deserve it after the way she spoke when Tris was first admitted, it seems Izzy is on her side.
‘I think Steph and Eamon would like to join us,’ she says, and Mr Talbot nods and says, ‘By all means.’
God bless you, Izzy. God bless you.
As he leads them down the corridor, Mr Talbot keeps a businesslike silence, and Steph is afraid that doesn’t bode well, that he’d be more chatty if there were something positive to say.
Always this same room, the family room, the room of revelations, hopes raised and dashed. As Mr Talbot points them to seats and sits down himself, Steph’s heart gives a little fluttering palpitation, her personal measure of when she’s too stressed. When Eamon squeezes her hand, she realises his interpretation of Mr Talbot’s silence matches her own.
But nothing has been said. It’s not yet too late for the news to be good.
And then it is.
Mr Talbot clears his throat, and Steph knows he’s buying himself time, ordering his words.
‘Sometimes in these cases, patients don’t respond as well as we’d like,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid that’s what’s happening with Tristan. The scans we did this morning show the swelling around his brain has not yet significantly reduced, and obviously the longer that pressure is there, the higher the risk of permanent damage.’
The rest of what Mr Talbot says washes over Steph, except for one word which jumps out as if he’s shouted it, though in reality he must have spoken it at the same volume as the rest. The word prods Eamon too; Steph feels the pressure on her hand increase.
Izzy’s looking at the doctor as if she’s understood nothing, but Steph knows it will soon sink in.
Eamon clears his throat in the same way as the doctor before he began, also being careful in his choice of words for her and Izzy’s sake, and against the background of all that’s happening Steph knows she doesn’t appreciate him enough.
‘What kind of disability?’ asks Eamon. His voice sounds almost normal, but the tension he’s feeling lifts it a half-tone towards boyishness.
Mr Talbot looks round at all three of them, assessing what level of bad news they can handle. Usually Steph would say, Don’t patronise me, just tell me, but she finds under these circumstances she wants the kid gloves approach. If she ha
s to know the worst, let the blow fall softly.
‘It’s very hard to say at this stage,’ says Mr Talbot. ‘But you should be prepared for it to affect him physically, in the use of his limbs, or in his speech and his ability to talk. In some cases the senses are affected, especially sight.’
There’s no colour left in Izzy’s cheeks, and Steph knows she’s seeing a glimpse of how she will age, of Izzy in her forties, going into her fifties.
Izzy says, ‘You mean he could be blind.’
‘It’s too early to say,’ says Mr Talbot, in a tempered voice Steph is sure he keeps for worst-case scenarios, which is where she’s afraid they might be. ‘It’s a waiting game for the moment.’
‘But those things can be fixed, can’t they?’ asks Eamon, playing the team optimist. ‘You’re a brain surgeon. You guys work miracles every day.’
‘Some things can be fixed, yes,’ says Mr Talbot. ‘A great deal depends on the individual patient, how hard they’re prepared to work at rehabilitation.’
There’s a ringing in Steph’s ears. She’d been thinking they’d be here a week at most, that Tris would be home and back at work before the month’s end. Now there’s talk of rehabilitation.
‘But he will lead a normal life, won’t he?’ she hears herself ask, and immediately rebukes herself for the bluntness of the question.
Mr Talbot considers. ‘Tristan is fit and strong. The best thing you can all do for the time being is to be with him, talk to him, call him back, if you will. When he wakes up, that will be the time to discuss next steps.’
‘When will he wake up?’ asks Izzy. ‘What’s taking so long?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ says Mr Talbot. ‘People heal at different rates. But as I say, Tristan has physical strength on his side. Let’s continue to be patient, give him the time he needs. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. Is there anything else you want to ask me?’
Steph can’t resist. ‘He is going to wake up, isn’t he? Surely you must at least be confident of that?’
‘As confident as I can be,’ says Mr Talbot. ‘I think at this stage we may at least be cautiously hopeful.’
There’s a silence which seems to be filled with many more questions that neither Steph, Eamon nor Izzy dare ask. Mr Talbot brings the meeting to a conclusion by slapping both his knees, saying, ‘Of course we’ll speak again soon. We’re monitoring his condition very closely.’
As they stand, Eamon asks, ‘What about the press? They’ll be pushing for an update. What should we tell them?’
‘I think you could say his condition is serious but stable. If you want to direct them to me, I’ll say it on your behalf.’ Mr Talbot’s hand is on the door handle when he turns round to add, ‘We should inform the police. They need to know his condition is – that he’s suffered life-changing injuries. It may affect the way they decide to progress the case.’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Steph. ‘I would hope they’re doing their utmost for us, regardless of his expected outcome. My son has suffered a vicious assault.’
‘Of course,’ replies Mr Talbot. ‘But it’s a fact of modern life that the more serious the outcome, the higher priority the case will take. In the same way as we would treat someone with a broken hip more urgently than someone with a cut finger.’
‘It makes sense, love,’ says Eamon.
‘I’ll talk to the police as well.’ Mr Talbot looks directly at Izzy. ‘But when I’ve done that, don’t be surprised if they want to talk to you again, Mrs Savage.’
Thirty-one
Duncan Painter asked to meet Muir and Weld in a Soho pub, a Victorian place with flamboyant hanging baskets, leaded windows and well-heeled marketeers and media creatives drinking on the pavement outside.
Painter seems to know the place well and have some influence.
‘Just come upstairs,’ he said to Weld when she was making the appointment. ‘There’s a private room next to the gents. We can talk in there.’
Inside, the bar’s a vast room of brass, mirrors and dark wood. The place is busy, especially for a Monday lunchtime; most of the pubs Muir frequents wouldn’t expect a crowd this big even on a cup-final Saturday. Seems like the kitchen’s doing good business too, and the smell of chips and sizzling beef reminds Muir that he’s hungry. Maybe they’ll have time to grab a bite before they catch the train home.
The journey has been long, the last leg on the underground particularly hot and miserable. Muir buys them both pints of lime and soda with extra ice, and, glass in hand, Weld leads the way up the red-carpeted stairs and knocks on a door next to the men’s toilets.
A voice invites them in. Duncan Painter’s seated at a long dining table, empty but for a large glass of red wine. He’s in his sixties, sleek and well fed without being overweight, wearing a skilfully tailored wide-pinstripe suit and a made-to-measure shirt. His greying hair is longer than most men of his age would dare wear and brushed back off his forehead; his glasses are fashionable faux-wooden frames. He’s relaxing in his chair, one foot resting on the other thigh, but when Muir and Weld walk in, he puts away his iPhone and stands up to offer his hand.
His handshake is firm and confident. Muir makes the introductions, and when Painter asks about their journey, Weld detects a touch of East London in his superficially well-bred accent, and wonders if he’s from humbler roots than where he seems to have got to now.
‘Glad you’ve got yourselves a drink,’ he says, sitting back down and gesturing to nearby chairs. ‘I didn’t think you’d be joining me in the wine. Welcome to my unofficial office. I have a proper office in Putney, but you can’t expect people to trek all the way out there for a short meeting like this, can you? So I have a little arrangement with the manager here which works pretty well. God knows I spend enough at the bar. Cheers.’
He holds up his glass before he drinks, and Muir and Weld are grateful for an opportunity to quench their thirsts. Weld takes a notebook and pen from her briefcase, and writes down the place and the time.
‘As you know, Mr Painter,’ begins Muir, ‘we’re here to talk about Tristan Hart, or Tristan Savage, who I believe is one of your clients.’
‘My oldest and most profitable client,’ confirms Painter. In his pocket, his iPhone buzzes. He glances at the screen and switches it off. ‘Never a minute’s peace these days, is there? I don’t mean old in terms of age, of course, only that Tris and I go way back, over twenty years. How time flies. He came to me when he was just starting out. He was ambitious even then, and so was I. I suppose you might say we both made our names off each other’s backs.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Face to face?’ Painter pulls a face as he considers. ‘He and I had lunch just before Christmas. Since he left London and moved out to the sticks – sorry, I don’t want to cast aspersions on the rural lifestyle – I see him far less often than I used to. When he was here, I probably saw him once a month or so, but since he met the lovely Izzy, those days are gone. It was a real shock when she called and told me what had happened. Of course I was happy to do everything I could to help, handling the press especially. They can be hugely intrusive, as I’m sure you know, and Izzy really has no experience of such situations.’
‘When you first heard about the incident, what were your thoughts?’ asks Weld. ‘Did you have any ideas as to who might have done it?’
Painter shakes his head. ‘Not really. No one specific sprang to mind. But when Izzy told me he’d been hit with a champagne bottle, I couldn’t help thinking there might be a woman involved, maybe even Izzy herself.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asks Muir, and Painter sighs.
‘I had to wonder – though I did hope it wasn’t the case – whether Tris might have been up to his old tricks. He used to have a bit of a reputation, you know, one for the ladies. You could hardly blame him, could you? He’s an attractive bloke, on the telly,
and he only ever had to snap his fingers for the girls to come running, lucky bugger. So my first thought was that Izzy might have caught him in flagrante and lost her rag. She seems mild-mannered enough but hell hath no fury, does it?’
Painter drinks more wine. Weld looks up from her notebook.
‘As far as you’re aware, was the marriage happy?’
‘Oh, blissful,’ says Painter, throwing open his arms to illustrate his response. ‘Absolutely blissful. Tris never stopped talking about her, Izzy this and Izzy that. I have to say, though, that she’s been good for him. They’re a much better match, I think, than him and his first wife.’
‘Were there issues there, then?’ asks Muir.
Painter regards him, considering whether to respond.
‘We’ve already spoken to Ms Blythe,’ Muir adds, and Painter gives a slow smile.
‘Good work,’ he says. ‘And how is the lovely Dolly? I always liked her, but she was completely wrong for Tris. She let him walk all over her.’
‘The way she tells it, she had a pretty rough time of it, living with his drink problem,’ puts in Weld. ‘Needless to say, we’re very familiar with the fallout from those kind of relationships. She tells us you were responsible for handling matters so his misdemeanours and indiscretions never reached the press.’
Painter nods. ‘Alcohol is Tris’s Achilles heel, I don’t know why. Some people are just wired that way, I suppose. The thing was with him, he was always professional enough to know when he could and when he couldn’t. You’d never find him under the influence while he was in front of a camera. But when he wasn’t working, all bets were off. I’ve no idea why Dolly put up with it as long as she did, actually.’
‘She says you talked her into staying.’
‘Fair comment. I suppose I did, once or twice. But then there was an incident which was the final straw, and she’d really had enough. I couldn’t keep the press off it for much longer anyway – rumours spread like wildfire round the entertainment world – and I was getting phone calls almost daily from the tabloids. They were hearing things, and at some point, someone was bound to take their money. So I got her set up somewhere she could live without his antics, and I refused to tell him where she was. He hated me for it in the beginning, but he came to see sense in the end.’
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