Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  ‘This incident which you describe as the final straw,’ says Weld. ‘Was it an accident?’

  Painter looks at her, considering. ‘That’s a fair question, but I believe it was. I’ve never had cause to believe Tris is anything but the good-natured soul he appears to be.’

  ‘He’s not a mean drunk, then?’

  ‘Exuberant, definitely. Mean, I wouldn’t say so, no. But the accident was a game changer. If it had got out, it would certainly have looked bad. His career would have been finished, no question about it.’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone else, no accidents around any other women that you know about?’ asks Weld.

  Painter shakes his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of. And I would be aware, I assure you.’

  ‘The thing is,’ says Muir, ‘what we’re short of is a motive, a solid motive. Assuming Tristan wasn’t assaulted by his wife or another woman, can you think of anyone else at all who might have had a reason to wish him harm?’

  ‘Did he owe money?’ Painter asks.

  ‘Why do you ask that? Surely he’s very well off?’ suggests Weld.

  ‘There’s no obvious reason he shouldn’t be, I agree. Look, it isn’t my place to say, and I don’t want to overstep the mark. It’s something you should talk to Izzy about, not me.’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything to us,’ says Muir, ‘so maybe she doesn’t know. So why don’t you tell us what you’re thinking?’

  ‘The thing is, Tris trusts me, as a business adviser and as a friend. When he’s recovered, I don’t want him thinking I’ve been telling tales out of school. That might terminally damage our relationship. He trusts me to be discreet.’

  ‘I think your first duty to him at the moment is to help us find out who assaulted him.’

  ‘Can my name be kept out of it?’

  ‘We can do our best.’

  Painter hesitates, then seems to make up his mind.

  ‘The bottom line is, I have made him loans from time to time. Not recently, but in the past. He seemed to get through cash at an alarming rate. If he got himself into trouble, I helped him out. Advances on earnings, if you like.’

  ‘How much cash?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Hundreds? Thousands?’

  ‘Ten thousand, maybe. Fifteen, once.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money to loan a friend. Was he gambling?’

  ‘No. Not that. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Just give me a minute.’

  Painter stands, takes a long drink from his glass and leaves the room. Beyond the door, Muir and Weld can hear the murmur of his voice as he makes a phone call, while they sit silent, trying to hear what’s being said. The call’s short; when he returns, Painter drops a business card on the table in front of Muir. A name and a mobile number are written on the back.

  ‘You’d be better off talking to this lady,’ he says, sitting back down. ‘Jackie Noble. She works at the BBC, and she produced Hart of the Matter for the three seasons it ran. It might have run longer, if Tris hadn’t . . . Well, she’ll tell it better than me. She says she’ll speak to you, for Tris’s sake, and she’s in the office for a couple more hours. Call her mobile when you get there and she’ll come down. You’re on expenses, aren’t you? It’s too hot for the tube, so if I were you, I’d take a cab.’

  They’re in the taxi when Muir’s phone rings. He glances at the screen and answers the call, mouthing Golding to Weld as he does so.

  ‘Hey, Nate, how’s things?’

  ‘I thought you might be finished by now. I just want to pass on some information for you to be mulling over on the train.’

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘Firstly, Amber’s come back with the search results on Tristan’s arrest record. Nothing there, really, a caution for disorderly conduct some years ago. If there’s been anything else, we’ve no record of it.’

  ‘Interesting. What else?’

  ‘With regards to Murray Roe, his bank details show he’s completely on his uppers. Could be a motive for him pestering Tristan. He’s a man very much in need of cash.’

  ‘So he stays on the list.’

  ‘For the time being, though he doesn’t show up at all on Tristan’s phone records. We’ve traced all his callers to that phone except for one, a pay-as-you-go which made several calls to his number over the last month, all from the Sterndale area.’

  ‘Did he accept the calls?’

  ‘Just the first one.’

  ‘Someone he wasn’t keen on talking to, then. A burner phone, maybe? Keep trying with that, see if you can track it down.’

  ‘And last but not least, an interesting one from Tristan’s bank account. A year or so ago, he made a significant payment to an account I haven’t yet traced.’

  ‘A UK account?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How significant was the payment?’

  ‘Twenty-five thousand.’

  Muir’s silent for a moment. ‘That’s a lot of cash to someone.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Great work, Nate. So your number one priority now is to trace that target account. I have to go, we’re just pulling up outside the BBC.’

  ‘All right for some.’

  ‘We’ll tell you all about it when we get back.’

  Thirty-two

  Muir can’t deny feeling a buzz as he and Weld climb out of the taxi near Portland Place.

  ‘They’ll love this, back at the nick,’ says Weld, readying her phone to take pictures. ‘I wonder if we’ll see any celebrities? Who would be your top star spot?’

  ‘Bear Grylls,’ says Muir, as they walk the short distance from the taxi. ‘Amy really fancies him. A life of jungles and helicopters, what’s not to like?’

  ‘Giant spiders and tropical diseases,’ says Weld. ‘I’d love to bump into Alexander Armstrong. Tall, handsome, intelligent, and he can sing. The perfect bloke.’

  ‘My fingers are crossed for you, then. Here we are.’

  The curved-fronted BBC building casts shade over the courtyard in front of it, cutting off the day’s sunshine, though that doesn’t seem to trouble the people there, chatting in small groups, talking into phones, drinking bottled water at outdoor cafés.

  Muir and Weld head for the main doors, Weld snapping a couple of pictures of the BBC logo high over their heads and scanning everyone they pass for famous faces. Muir calls the number Duncan Painter gave them. It rings, then goes to answerphone. Muir leaves a message and hangs up.

  ‘What now?’ asks Weld.

  ‘We’ll give it ten minutes. If we haven’t heard anything by then, I’ll call again.’

  ‘Time for more celeb spotting in the meantime.’

  But only five minutes later, a woman appears at Weld’s side and asks, ‘Are you the police?’ Muir takes her proffered hand; her handshake’s soft and weak. ‘I’m Jackie Noble.’

  ‘How did you know it was us?’ asks Muir after he’s made the introductions, but Jackie just smiles and glances down at his suit and formal shoes. ‘Are you saying we’re overdressed for this location?’

  ‘We’re not big on formal wear here,’ says Jackie, and Weld thinks that’s certainly true of her. Jackie’s petite, with very short black hair shot through with electric blue highlights which Weld admires, though she thinks the woman’s pushing it age-wise for the short skirt she’s wearing. Still, she has the legs for it. She’s bare-faced and getting away with that too, thanks to a tan which suggests she’s recently been somewhere properly, reliably hot.

  ‘We could try and grab a table if you like,’ suggests Jackie, nodding towards Caffè Nero, but the place is crowded and the tables close together.

  ‘The questions we have to ask are of a confidential nature,’ says Weld. ‘Perhaps if we find somewhere we won’t be overheard?’

  Jackie looks dubious
, but Muir leads them to a quiet spot in the courtyard, where they’re largely hidden from view by a pillar.

  ‘Ask away, then,’ says Jackie. ‘I heard about poor Tris. Is he going to be OK?’

  ‘There’s no reason at present to think otherwise,’ says Muir, ‘but he’s suffered a serious assault, for which we’re keen to make an arrest.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, though to be honest when I heard, I assumed it was something to do with . . . Well, I assumed he’d had a fall or something. You know, had too much to drink.’

  ‘Based on his behaviour when you were working together?’

  ‘Partly that, yes. But in this business . . . Is this in confidence, by the way? I don’t want him to wake up and think I’ve been blabbing his dirty little secrets.’

  ‘We won’t name our sources, no,’ confirms Muir. ‘Please, finish what you were saying.’

  ‘Only that Tris has – or had – a reputation for being a pretty heavy boozer. I don’t know if that’s still the case, obviously. It’s been a while since I worked with him.’

  ‘Was it only alcohol?’ asks Weld. ‘When we spoke to Mr Painter, he suggested you might be able to tell us how come Tristan ended up needing to borrow significant sums of money on several occasions.’

  Jackie glances round, as if to confirm there’s no one within earshot.

  ‘You absolutely didn’t get this from me, and I would never put it in a formal statement, but he did use other – recreational drugs. Especially coke. I do remember a time he got a bit paranoid, using the side entrance, and he wouldn’t leave the building alone. I assumed it was the drugs making him that way, but he insisted there were people out to get him, so maybe he’d overrun his credit limit with his dealer. But the thing was with Tris, he could always pull it together in front of the camera. When the lights went on, Tris lit up and played his part. If he hadn’t been in current affairs and gameshows, I think he’d have been very successful on the stage.’

  ‘He’s quite an actor, then?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘And the paranoia, what happened to that?’

  ‘He came in one day and all his problems seemed to have disappeared. From what you just said, I assume that was courtesy of Duncan – acting in his own interests, of course. Tris has been his golden-egg-laying goose for many years. If Tris goes down, Duncan goes with him.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have other clients?’

  ‘Not of Tris’s stature. While he’s got Tris, why does he need anyone else?’

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ asks Weld. ‘Do you like Tristan?’

  Jackie looks doubtful.

  ‘He’s great at what he does, and he has real talent. And like I say, it’s been a long while since I’ve seen him, so he might have got his act together by now. He’s married again, hasn’t he? Maybe his new wife has taken him in hand. When we were working together he was newly divorced, and people tend to go off the rails then anyway, don’t they? But if you’re asking me if I’d invite him round to my house for dinner, introduce him to my family and friends, the answer’s no. He’s way too unpredictable for my tastes. I prefer the company of people who are steady and reliable.’

  Thirty-three

  Golding’s been trying to put a name to the holder of the bank account where Tristan paid in twenty-five thousand pounds. Mid-afternoon, he receives an email with the result.

  When he first reads the message, he does a double take.

  It’s a Lloyds account, belonging to Aidan Ridley.

  Andy Davis drew the short straw of managing the guest list enquiries. He’s a man after Golding’s own heart and a lover of spreadsheets, and Golding knows he can be relied on to find the required information, no trouble at all.

  Davis is so organised, there are rarely more than three pieces of paper on his desk. Two ballpoint pens lying perfectly parallel near his hand point to his OCD, but he has plenty of room for a small fan, blowing cool air into his face as he works. Put a fan on Golding’s desk, it would cause a paper landslide.

  ‘How’s it going, Andy?’

  Davis turns round and leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. Golding can smell the antiseptic gel Davis rubs into his palms numerous times a day.

  ‘All right, old fella,’ says Davis. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘I need an address for one of the Savage case wedding guests, Aidan Ridley.’

  ‘Our Aidan, as was?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘He’ll be in the database.’ Davis opens a new window on his screen and keys in a search term. ‘How’s the family doing?’

  ‘Oh, they’re all right, keeping busy. Chrissie’s still waiting for the operation on her ears. It’s been cancelled twice already, but that’s the NHS for you.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth. Here we go. Business or home?’

  Golding glances at his watch, assessing the time it will take him to get to Sterndale.

  ‘What’s his business?’

  ‘Looks like a bike shop.’

  So it probably closes at 5 p.m. If he gets going now, he has time, but belt and braces are always better.

  ‘I’ll take both while I’m here, and phone numbers too, if you’ve got them.’

  ‘I’ve always got them,’ says Davis. ‘Shall I print them for you?’

  Golding holds up his notebook. ‘I’ll write them down, save the ink. And you can take him off your list of interviewees. I’m going over there to talk to him myself.’

  Golding thinks Ridley’s picked a good spot for the On Your Bike mountain bike shop – a converted barn right on the side of the A-road which bypasses Sterndale and eventually hits Shrewsbury, easy access, an attractive stone building full of character and plenty of parking outside. And the siting strategy seems to be paying off. There are a number of cars in the car park, making the place look reasonably busy for a weekday afternoon.

  Inside, the barn lends itself perfectly to the business, with plenty of space to display all kinds of bikes, and a big area to one side where a few men – no women, Golding notices – are browsing the apparently necessary kit: Lycra shorts, helmets, water bottles, lights, bike parts, books and maps. And the bikes look complicated too. In Golding’s day, if you had a bike with proper gears on it, you were the envy of the neighbourhood. Times change.

  There’s a woman at the counter folding some tight-looking jerseys, which Golding doubts would be available in anything close to his size. When she sees him approaching, she stops what she’s doing and gives him a welcoming smile. There’s a name tag on her blouse: Maria.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Her accent’s like his own, central Swansea.

  Golding returns her smile and produces his warrant card.

  ‘I’m looking for Aidan Ridley, is he about? Nothing to worry about, just routine.’

  ‘He’s in the office,’ says Maria. ‘Give me a minute.’

  She picks up an old-fashioned walkie-talkie and presses a button. In a moment a crackling voice answers, and Maria says, ‘Someone here to see you.’

  She puts the walkie-talkie back in its place. ‘No reliable mobile signal up here, see. It’s like living in the Stone Age.’

  Glancing around at all the high-tech equipment for what used to be such a simple sport, Golding can’t agree.

  A man’s walking towards them from the back of the store – tall, fit-looking but with a slight limp. Golding thought he might recognise him from Burnt Common, but he doesn’t. The kind of work he does for CID doesn’t bring him into contact with uniforms that often. When the man reaches Golding, he raises his eyebrows in polite enquiry.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Golding introduces himself and flashes his warrant card again.

  ‘Aidan Ridley?’ Aidan nods. ‘I wonder if I might have a word? Maybe in your office?’

  Aidan l
eads the way to a room at the back of the barn. The usual paraphernalia of PCs and printers is there, but this office is a step beyond any other Golding’s ever been in, with the rear wall entirely glass, making the place feel like an extension of the hills outside.

  ‘This is quite a set-up,’ says Golding.

  Aidan takes a seat at his desk – facing the view, notices Golding, but then who wouldn’t? – and gestures to Golding to sit too.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Most of it was paid for with compensation from my accident. Well, it was no accident, actually.’

  ‘What happened? If you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I was on a shout, two blokes taking a car from a driveway. Nice car, actually, a Merc CLS. We were in the area, got there quickly enough for the scrotes to still be on the scene. One of them tried to take off, I grabbed him and got him on the ground, but he took me down with him. Unfortunately for me, his mate was determined to have that car and drove away over my leg, front wheel, then rear. Crush injuries. They did their best to pin it and rebuild it and I had months of physio, but it’s never been good enough to go back on active duty. Happily I can still ride a bike. They offered me a desk job, but that’s not me. I had a legacy coming to me, and putting that with the compensation, I took a chance on this place.’

  ‘Good for you, mate,’ says Golding. ‘Glad to know some good came out of it. The money you had from Tristan Savage – Tristan Hart, you may know him as – what did you do with that?’

  Aidan gives a slow smile. ‘Is that what this is about?’

  ‘All part of the enquiry. We’ve been looking into Tristan’s bank account, and your name came up. Twenty-five grand, that’s a significant sum.’

  Aidan regards Golding before he answers, so Golding wonders if he’s giving himself time to think.

  ‘Tristan’s a friend,’ says Aidan eventually. ‘He wanted to invest in this business, help me get it off the ground. It’s an informal arrangement, just between him and me. At his request, I haven’t told my wife and he hasn’t told his, or at least he said he wasn’t going to.’