‘It strikes me that way, too,’ says Muir. ‘How did he explain it?’
‘He says he had some secret arrangement with Tristan, a business loan they were keeping from their respective wives.’
‘Why?’ asks Weld.
Golding shrugs. ‘To maintain the integrity of their friendship. Apparently Tristan didn’t want Aidan’s wife to feel beholden.’
Muir looks doubtful. ‘Did you believe him?’
‘Depends what those production orders show up,’ says Golding.
‘I’ll get them processed ASAP,’ says Muir, opening up his emails. ‘Could Ridley really be involved? What would be the motive?’
‘Maybe it wasn’t a business loan,’ says Weld. ‘Someone like Tristan, could be some kind of extortion.’
‘Especially given the fact he was a serving officer in the Sterndale district,’ says Golding. ‘He might have come across information he was holding over Tristan’s head.’
Muir raises his hands. ‘Hold on, hold on. It’s a long jump from Ridley’s story to police corruption and blackmail. Let’s not get carried away. His story’s plausible.’
‘But not provable,’ says Weld. ‘Not now Tristan’s dead.’
‘It might be provable, with those orders,’ says Muir. ‘And I’m going to hope so, because the last thing we need is the kind of scandal West Mercia will face if it turns out he is somehow involved. What’s the situation with Tristan’s financial records?’
‘The requests went to the banks last week,’ says Weld. ‘They should be back with us anytime.’
‘In the meantime, what else do we have?’ asks Muir. ‘I’d hate to go upstairs and tell them the only whisper of a suspect we have is one of our own.’
‘There’s Murray Roe,’ says Weld. ‘Surely he’s still on our radar?’
‘And the pay-as-you-go phone we haven’t identified,’ says Golding, ‘the number which called Tristan. We still need to find out who that belongs to.’
‘I’ve had an idea which could rule Aidan out, or move him down our list,’ says Weld. ‘Though worst-case scenario, it could rule him further in. Remember Amber saying the hotel manager recalled someone behaving oddly on the night of the wedding? We must have a photo of Aidan somewhere on file – she could take a copy over there, see what he has to say. At the very least, she can try and get a better description from him.’
‘Maybe we can get the manager to do a Photofit,’ suggests Golding.
‘That’s a good idea,’ says Muir.
‘Something Gail Clements could have a look at,’ says Weld. ‘And her daughter must be back from honeymoon by now. We could ask her and her husband too.’
‘So we still have leads to follow,’ says Muir. ‘Fingers crossed they don’t take us in a direction we really don’t want to go.’
Forty-one
Two days since Tristan’s death.
From the kitchen, Izzy hears the key in the door, the turn of the latch, and a light tread on the hall carpet before the front door is gently closed.
Izzy’s sitting at the pine table, an untouched mug of coffee to her left, an open laptop to her right. The shell of Flora’s breakfast egg is still in its Peter Rabbit eggcup, and honey-sticky crusts of toast lie on a matching plate.
In the kitchen doorway, Bridget stops. Izzy looks utterly wretched, sallow and skeletal, her hands bony and repugnant. It’s almost nine but she’s still in her robe, her usually glossy hair pulled back in a rough ponytail which shows oily roots at her scalp.
‘Come in, Bridget,’ she says.
Bridget has been crying. She drops her black bag on the floor and was thinking she’d give Izzy a hug, but Izzy steers her away by pointing to a chair on the opposite side of the table.
Today the slogan on Bridget’s black T-shirt reads, Go Ask Alice. She fumbles in her skirt pocket for a tissue, and as she sits, says, ‘I’m so, so sorry. I just never thought we’d lose him. Are you OK? I don’t know what to say.’ She dabs her eyes and looks round. ‘Where’s Flora?’
‘She’s with my mother in the lounge,’ says Izzy, in a voice with no emotion. ‘Thanks for coming over. I just wanted to have a chat about where we go from here.’
Bridget sniffs, and wipes her nose. ‘You know I’m always here for you. For Flora. Whatever I can do.’
Izzy pulls the laptop towards her and brings it out of sleep mode. The screen fills with a black-and-white video still. She presses the Play arrow, and feeling a tug of sadness at the coming ending, turns it round to face Bridget.
‘What can you tell me about this?’
Bridget watches the footage: the evening of the wedding, Murray Roe walking up the drive of Foxcote Lodge, Bridget letting him into the house. She watches the whole thing before she speaks, giving herself time, Izzy assumes, to come up with a plausible response.
‘It’s just a friend of mine,’ she says at last, and Izzy knows she’s weighed up the odds of her not knowing who Murray is and decided to gamble. ‘He was in the area and wanted to see me. He wasn’t here very long, and I really didn’t think you’d mind. You guys were all out enjoying yourselves.’
The note of petulance in Bridget’s voice is plainly intended to make Izzy feel unreasonably restrictive on her life, but all it does is stoke her anger. As this man was sauntering up the drive, Tris had probably already been attacked and left in a pool of his own blood.
‘I know who that man is, Bridget, but I don’t believe that you did.’
‘So why did you ask me if you knew who he was?’ That petulance again. ‘Are you trying to catch me out or something? What’s going on?’
‘Why did you let him into our house? We made the rules very clear, but you still let someone in without knowing who he was.’
‘He said he was family. What was I supposed to do?’
‘So why did you say he was your friend?’
‘Did I say that? Please, Izzy, don’t be like this. If I’d known you’d be so upset, of course I wouldn’t have let him in. He said he was family, and I didn’t know what to do. It would have been rude just to send him away.’
‘Why have you been recording my private conversations?’
Bridget shakes her head in apparent confusion.
‘What conversations? Why would I do that?’
‘You’ve been recording my conversations, and you’ve been sending them to Murray Roe to support the story he wants to sell to the media.’ A subtle change in Bridget’s expression shows Izzy she’s hit home, and the knowledge is painful. ‘What was your cut going to be, Bridget, for dishing the dirt on my family?’
‘I would never do that. You know I wouldn’t. You must know I wouldn’t.’
‘You signed a confidentiality agreement and a non-disclosure agreement which clearly you’ve now broken. If anything goes into print, I’ll sue you, and every single penny you make for years to come will come straight back to me. Duncan will be writing to you formally warning you of that fact, and if there’s the slightest whiff in the press, he’ll serve you with an injunction.’
Bridget begins to cry again. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any harm by it, only money’s tight, you know, and Manzi doesn’t make that much either. I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s hard when you’re hurting for cash. Please, Izzy, we can sort this out. I love you guys, I love Flora, I love this job more than anything. OK, I fucked up, but please, give me another chance.’
‘What you did was despicably underhand. I’m only glad Tris never knew about it. We trusted you with our daughter’s care, and you betrayed us.’
‘I didn’t betray you, Izzy. We needed money, and he said . . .’
‘If you needed money, you could have asked for a loan. Or an advance. Knowing Tris, he would have given it to you.’
‘Listen, Izzy, please give me another chance. I’ll work for free. Whatever you say. Please.
’
‘If you’ve left anything in the house, I’ll send it on. You can drop your keys on the side there, and you know the way out. I’ll tell Flora you said goodbye.’
Izzy hears the front door slam. Flora will miss Bridget, and once her mother’s left, Izzy will miss having someone around the house, which is much too big for a family of only two.
Tomorrow, she’ll ring the estate agents, and make arrangements for Foxcote Lodge to be sold.
Amber Gooch has been on temporary loan to a team working another case, but as soon as they can spare her, she makes the journey back to Sterndale.
Pre-lunch, the hotel car park is all but empty. Inside at reception, she asks if she can speak to Craig Dalton, and settles into an armchair with a view of the gardens to wait.
Dalton soon appears. When he sees Gooch, he smiles warmly. He has the beginnings of a carefully trimmed beard, and Gooch thinks how well it suits him.
She stands to shake his hand. ‘Me again. I’m like a bad penny.’
Dalton shakes his head. ‘Not at all. Can I offer you some coffee?’
Gooch smiles. ‘Thanks. That’d be great.’
Dalton gives an instruction at reception and takes a seat across from Gooch, leaning forward in expectation.
‘So how’s it going?’ he asks. ‘I was really sorry to hear about Tristan’s death. A guy like him, you can’t quite believe it, can you? And I keep thinking, it happened here. This place will be forever famous. Can you believe his official fan club have been in touch, asking if they can put up a shrine or a plaque?’
‘Are you serious? Sounds a bit morbid.’
‘I thought so too. Happily it’s not my decision. I’ve passed the buck to someone more senior than me.’
A waitress brings a tray holding a cafetiere and a trio of mini-croissants, which she unloads on to the table in front of Gooch.
‘I thought maybe you hadn’t had breakfast,’ says Dalton.
‘That’s very kind,’ says Gooch. ‘In fact, I haven’t.’
‘And I’m glad you’re here. You’ve saved me a phone call. A relatively small thing, but I want to report a theft. I’m not expecting you to put the full force into action on it, but if I could have a crime number, we can put in an insurance claim.’
‘Actually, I can’t give you a crime number,’ says Gooch. ‘Sorry. You’d have to phone it in through 101. Can I ask what’s been taken?’
‘A couple of watercolour miniatures from one of the bedrooms. Not hugely valuable – obviously we’d never put anything high-value in public areas – two or three hundred pounds at most. Just about enough to make it worth the claim.’
Gooch cuts a piece off an almond croissant. ‘Any idea who took them?’
‘Almost certainly one of the guests,’ says Dalton. ‘The staff who service those rooms have been with us a while, and I believe they’re trustworthy. The problem is, we’re not sure how long the miniatures have been gone, and the occupants of our rooms change almost daily.’
‘What about SmartWater? I saw the sign in the doorway.’
‘Well spotted.’
‘A trained eye. Were the paintings marked?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Maybe not gone forever, then. But call it in to 101. Anyway, I know you’re busy, so let me tell you why I’m here. Firstly, I’m hoping to have a chat to the staff I didn’t get to talk to before. These four.’
She slides a piece of paper with their names on across the table, and Dalton reads it.
‘You’re in luck. They’re all here but one. If you stay where you are and enjoy your coffee, I can send them through.’
‘Great. And the other thing is, going back to the last time we talked. You told me you remember on the night of the incident seeing a man sitting here in the lobby area for a while, looking what you described at the time as . . .’ She glances at a page in her notebook. ‘Somewhat on edge. He’s someone we’d like to speak to, to rule him in or out of our enquiry, and we’d like to ask your help in making an identification. To that end, I’ve brought a photo to show you, but if it’s not him, can I ask if you’d be prepared to work with us on an identikit picture? You could either come to Burnt Common, or we could send someone here. Whatever suits you.’
Dalton nods. ‘Absolutely. Anything I can do to help.’
‘OK.’ From her shoulder bag, Gooch pulls out a photograph, a head and shoulders shot blown up to A4 size. ‘I’m afraid the quality’s not great, but could this be the man you saw that evening?’
Dalton takes the picture and studies it very briefly.
‘That’s him,’ he says. ‘Who is it?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ says Gooch.
But Dalton’s made a positive ID on ex-PC Aidan Ridley.
Forty-two
Through the bedroom window, Izzy can see police cars and a crowd of strangers gathered behind the closed gate. Some of them are media, reporters and paparazzi, come to Sterndale for the chance to snap celebrity funeral attendees. Most of the others are women, who began to gather almost as soon as news of Tris’s death emerged, a sisterhood of superfans Izzy never knew existed, who hug each other, lay offerings on a growing mound of bouquets, cards and soft toys, light tea-lights and candles, creating a shrine at the end of the drive to a man most of them probably never even met.
Seven days since his death, Izzy’s holding it together enough to have put on make-up and a plain black dress she’s wearing with modest heels and a black-veiled hat to hide her face. Her jewellery, too, is simple: only her platinum wedding band, and the pearl earrings he bought her on their Seychelles honeymoon. She believed then that they were happy, but now she’s racked with doubts. How can she ever know whether any of it was real?
Behind the hedge, the hearse and limousines are approaching, and her mother calls to her to come down.
Izzy picks up her hat. On the dressing table, the forget-me-nots Tris brought her are no longer blue, but faded to powdery grey.
It’s not a day to be wearing black. Weld’s driving herself and Gooch to Tristan’s funeral along roads lit by bright sunshine, past meadows where buttercups are blooming and cows graze the lush grass.
When they reach Sterndale, the bustle about the town seems upbeat, more excitement than deference. Weld finds a spot in the public car park behind the Co-op, and sends Gooch to the machine to pay for the maximum allowed stay. She hopes they won’t be here that long, but there’s a full hour to wait before the service begins. They’re early, knowing the church will be full, and that there’s no point in their being here if they have to stand outside.
The walk to the church is a pleasant one, past shops and busy cafés. Gooch pauses outside the Blue Moon to read the specials board, already thinking of lunch and hoping to see roast beef is still on the menu. Looming over the rooftops, the church tower shows their route, across the marketplace and down a cobbled side street, where the churchyard lies behind a railing-topped wall.
A crowd has already gathered, held back on the pavements by traffic police trying to keep the road clear for vehicles. Many of those waiting are Tristan’s fans, older women holding up homemade placards: We love you Tristan and Tristan RIP. Some are wearing black, but more are colourful in the don’t-give-a-damn style of the contemporary post-menopausal, and there are some interesting-looking women amongst them. Weld spots what must be grey hair tinted blue, purple and pink. Led by a woman with a short crop dyed vibrant red, a few of them are singing a recognisable version of You’ll Never Walk Alone, and the red-haired leader waves her arms above her head, showing a red dragon tattooed down the length of an arm exposed by an orange vest top.
Space for the cortège has been coned off directly outside the church gate. Beyond there the press are gathered among the lopsided gravestones.
A wiry man in an oversized black suit steps in front of Weld to block thei
r way. Scanning his clipboard, he asks if they’re on the list.
‘Doubtful,’ says Weld, ‘but we’re going in anyway.’ She shows her warrant card and he waves them through, telling them to sit at the back.
‘This is how I want my funeral to be,’ says Gooch, as they approach the church porch. ‘If your name’s not on the list, you don’t get in.’
‘Have you been to many funerals?’
‘Not really,’ admits Gooch. ‘I went to my grandma’s, about five years ago.’
‘Well, let me tell you,’ says Weld, ‘you’ll probably never go to another one like this, and I’ve been to too many where it’s pretty much just us and the vicar. If you want this kind of send-off, you’d better start being nice to people and making friends from this moment on, build yourself some credit.’
‘I am nice to people,’ objects Gooch. ‘Well, mostly, anyway.’
‘In the meantime, I’m happy to share with you my number one tip for blending into the background during funeral surveillance. Make sure your phone is turned off.’
Even on this balmy day, the church has a musty undertone of damp, but it’s almost overwhelmed by the scent of flowers: white roses and freesia interwoven with ivy, in stately arrangements beneath every window and at the altar, where two empty trestles wait. An organ is quietly playing. As they take seats in a rear pew – where Weld would sit regardless of instruction, since that location gives the best view of arrivals – a sidesman hands each of them an order of service. On its cover is a photo of Tristan – not a posed publicity still, but a natural shot of him smiling over his shoulder at whoever’s behind the camera – probably his wife, thinks Weld – relaxed, tanned, with a stretch of blue sea and sky as background.
Gooch seems quite touched. ‘Such a waste. Wasn’t he handsome?’
‘I suppose he was,’ concedes Weld, ‘but we’re not here as mourners. Our job is to maintain a discreet watch, notice who’s here and any behaviour which strikes you as out of the ordinary. In these kind of situations, people sometimes give things away, especially at the wake when they’ve had a couple of drinks.’
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