Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  ‘Does that mean anything, though? Maybe he bought headphones or an SD card.’

  ‘Except he didn’t.’ Golding opens a new window, displaying a Carphone Warehouse receipt. ‘Voilà. He bought a cheap, SIM-free phone.’

  ‘Son of a gun,’ says Muir. He looks around the office. ‘Kirstie, come over here.’

  Weld joins them, and Golding shows her what he’s found.

  ‘Great work, Nate,’ she says, and gives him a high five.

  ‘Just hold on, though,’ says Muir. ‘If Ridley’s already calling Tristan, why does he need a second phone?’

  ‘Legitimate and non-legitimate business,’ says Weld. ‘He’s an ex-copper. He knows how things work.’

  ‘But the calls only connected once,’ says Muir. ‘It looks like they never really spoke on that number.’

  ‘Could have been a signal,’ says Golding. ‘A “meet me in the usual place” kind of a thing.’

  ‘They could have been texting,’ suggests Weld. ‘Maybe Tristan deleted the text stream because he didn’t want Izzy to see it.’

  ‘The big question is, if it’s Ridley’s, does he still have the phone or has he dumped it? How can we find out without spooking him more than we already have?’

  ‘We could ring it,’ says Weld. ‘While we’re in close proximity, at his home, or at his office.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a long shot,’ says Muir, ‘and it won’t work if it’s not switched on. We’d better go armed with a couple of warrants, one for the house, one for the office. Nate, can you organise that?’

  ‘And if we don’t find it in either place?’ asks Weld.

  ‘Let’s stay optimistic,’ says Muir, ‘and cross that bridge if and when we get there.’

  Aidan’s going to work as normal, deciding he might as well; his premises are off the beat of normal Sterndale foot traffic, and the majority of his customers are from outside town. At the shop, he can focus – at least some of the time – on something other than their troubling situation.

  Laura spends the day alone, passing the hours as best she can until the children are back from school. She’s pleased to see them, and Josh is hungry, as always.

  When the doorbell rings, she’s watching him slather Nutella on a thick slice of toast.

  Laura answers the door to a man and a woman.

  Laura’s only too familiar with the type, and she knows who they are even before the man holds up a warrant card and says, ‘DI Muir, West Mercia police. This is my colleague, DS Weld. We’re looking for Aidan Ridley.’

  Laura feels disturbed that they’re here. Apart from upsetting the children, the neighbours miss nothing, and the last thing they need is this kind of fuel stoking the fires of local gossip. Why can’t they leave Aidan alone?

  ‘He’s at work,’ she says. ‘I expect you’ve got the address.’

  ‘Is it Mrs Ridley?’ asks Muir. ‘Do you mind if we come in?’

  He takes a step forward into Laura’s personal space, and without even thinking she moves back.

  ‘I’ve told you, he isn’t here,’ she says, as they pass her going into the hall.

  Muir notices a photograph on the wall. ‘Is that the old Chief Super I see there?’

  ‘My dad,’ says Laura. ‘He died last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Muir. ‘Gavin Barton was one of the best, climbed the ranks the hard way and was one of the most respected men I knew. I didn’t realise you were a relation. Through here, is it?’

  He’s leading the way into the lounge.

  ‘You’ll find Aidan at the shop,’ says Laura, following him and Weld. ‘He won’t be home until this evening.’

  ‘It’s just a couple of questions, following up on our interview with him regarding the murder of Tristan Hart,’ says Weld, as she sits down on the sofa.

  Laura feels a cold trickle down her spine.

  ‘We’re trying to trace a mobile which made a number of calls to Tristan’s iPhone. This is the number, here.’

  From his suit pocket, Muir produces a piece of paper with a mobile number scribbled in red ink. When he shows it to Laura, she frowns. The digit sequence is vaguely familiar.

  ‘Do you know that number, Mrs Ridley?’

  Laura’s answer lacks conviction. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we try calling it?’

  Weld has the number already programmed into her phone. She presses the call button, and seconds later, a jangling ringtone sounds upstairs.

  ‘Whose phone is that?’ asks Muir.

  And then the call is answered, and Gemma says, ‘Hello?’

  Fifty

  Josh has tight hold of Laura’s hand, tighter than she can remember him holding it even as a much smaller child, as tight as he used to squeeze her finger when he was a baby six months old. He’s silent and very pale, standing stiffly beside her on the lawn as the men and women in white suits go in and out of their house, the house they’re barred from entering. In other circumstances, Josh would be thrilled at all the excitement, but there’s no excitement in watching your family fall apart.

  How can this be happening?

  Aidan has been picked up from the shop and is on his way here. Laura keeps looking over to one of the police cars parked at the kerb. Gemma’s sitting alone in the back, with a policewoman standing guard, and Laura’s desperate to catch her daughter’s eye, but Gemma’s head stays bowed, her face covered by the curtain of her hair. And if she catches her eye, how would that help? What Laura wants more than anything is to be with Gemma and hold her hand, but they’ve been separated to prevent them collaborating, and contact’s not allowed.

  Keeping an eye on Laura and Josh is a second policewoman, older and jaded with eyes which show no empathy.

  Laura asks if she can borrow a phone, and the policewoman, says, ‘I’m sorry?’ as if the request is so outrageous, she thinks she’s misheard.

  ‘I need to call my mother-in-law,’ pleads Laura. ‘I need to ask her to come and take my son.’

  The policewoman says nothing, but wanders across Laura’s lawn to the front of the house, where Muir is conferring with one of the SOCOs. The policewoman interrupts him, and points at Gemma as she speaks. Muir glances in their direction.

  ‘Will they let Grandma come?’ asks Josh, in a voice so quiet Laura can barely hear him. Is he afraid he’ll be swept along in all this, taken into custody too? How frightening a prospect must that be to a boy of his age?

  Laura strokes his hair. ‘Of course they will, sweetie. She’ll take good care of you until Dad and I get home.’

  She sees him look over at Gemma, and his eyes fill with tears.

  ‘What will they do to her?’ he asks, in that same quiet voice. ‘Is she going to prison?’

  Laura doesn’t know, and doesn’t know what to say, so she’s grateful for the return of the policewoman, who’s taking out her mobile phone.

  ‘The inspector says under the circumstances I can call on your behalf. What’s the number?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ says Laura. ‘I’ve got her landline written down somewhere, if I could just go in the house.’

  The policewoman raises her eyebrows a fraction. Request denied.

  ‘I know Grandma’s number,’ says Josh uncertainly, and he recites it for the policewoman to key in. As it rings out, Laura’s surprised to see her give Josh an approving smile.

  Aidan’s mum Jeannie answers, and the policewoman says, ‘This is West Mercia police, everyone is safe, no one is hurt. There’s a situation at your daughter-in-law’s home in Sterndale, and she’s asking if you could come and take care of . . .’ She looks at Laura. ‘What’s your son’s name?’

  ‘Josh.’

  ‘If you can come and take care of Josh.’

  Inevitably, Jeannie starts asking questions, but the
policewoman shuts her down.

  ‘It’s a matter of some urgency, Madam. When shall I tell her you’ll be here . . .? OK, thanks.’

  She ends the call and re-pockets her phone. ‘She’s on her way.’

  A SOCO in a white suit has Gemma’s pink laptop in a plastic bag, and is taking it to a van. Laura glances across at the police car, but Gemma hasn’t noticed. She hasn’t moved.

  ‘Shall I get my stuff?’ asks Josh, and he looks up at Laura as if the decision is hers.

  ‘Yes, can he get his things? He’ll need a change of clothes at least, and his pyjamas.’

  ‘And my football.’

  The policewoman shakes her head.

  ‘Sorry, young man. Not today. You can’t touch anything until the search is complete.’

  Josh is still holding tightly on to Laura’s hand, being her brave little soldier, and Laura knows what it’s costing him not to cry, because she’s feeling the same way.

  She hears a car turning the corner into their cul-de-sac, and prays it’s Aidan, come to make everything fine. But the vehicle is a taxi, which pulls up at the end of the driveway. The passenger pays the driver and climbs out: a middle-aged woman in a fashionable dress and bright lipstick, who reminds Laura of one of Josh’s teachers a couple of years back, a teacher he didn’t much like.

  The woman glances round, spots Gemma in the back of the police car and speaks to the policewoman standing guard over Gemma as if she’s some kind of threat. The policewoman nods, and the new arrival gets in beside Gemma. Laura sees her daughter turn towards this stranger, can see her listening to what she has to say.

  The policewoman watching Laura and Josh takes out her phone again and dials a number. When she gets an answer, she turns her back, but Laura hears clearly what she says.

  ‘Your appropriate adult is here.’

  Two policemen appear from round the back of the house. From a distance, one of them looks like Aidan in his uniformed days; as they draw closer, the resemblance fades, but she recognises Danny, one of his old colleagues. As they head towards their car, he glances covertly at Laura and she knows he’s recognised her, though he gives her no acknowledgement.

  She’s on the wrong team now.

  Danny gets in the driver’s seat, his passenger beside him. The engine starts.

  This is actually going to happen. They’re going to take Gemma away.

  Laura starts to run forward, pulling Josh with her, but the policewoman blocks her way.

  ‘Gemma!’

  Gemma’s terrified face is at the window. Laura sees her lips mouth Mum!, and she bangs on the glass, trying to get out.

  Then the police car turns the corner, out of sight.

  Fifty-one

  On a hard seat inside the main entrance of Burnt Common police station, Laura endures a seemingly endless wait, wishing every moment that Aidan were here. This used to be his place, his comfort zone, and he’s well versed in procedures and rights in custody, whereas Laura finds it intimidating, disempowering, and doesn’t even know where to get a cup of tea. Not that she wants tea; what she wants is to be reunited with Gemma, and for both of them to go home.

  But Aidan’s still officially a suspect in the case, and not allowed to speak to his daughter, which leaves Laura to sort out this mess.

  What would her dad say now?

  Two hours pass before a young woman comes to fetch her, leading her without pleasantries to a room designated Interview 3.

  The young woman allows her to enter, and closes the door to leave Laura and Gemma alone.

  Gemma’s sitting on the far side of a table, already different to the girl she was when they took her away. Something in her face is closed, guarded, hardened by the instinct of self-preservation, but when she sees her mother, she jumps up and rushes to her, clinging to her as she begins to cry.

  ‘Mum, help me!’

  And Laura cries too, because what help can she offer?

  But plainly they don’t have unlimited time. As Gemma becomes calmer, she wipes away her tears and goes back to her seat. Laura places a second chair next to her.

  ‘You have to tell me what’s been going on,’ she says. ‘I need to know everything so we can get this sorted out.’

  Gemma hides her face in her hands.

  ‘Look at me,’ insists Laura. ‘You’ve got to be honest now. Me and Dad can’t help you unless we know the truth. Tell me what happened.’

  Gemma looks up and shakes her head.

  ‘It can’t be sorted, Mum. I’ve done something so bad, and they know it was me. Please don’t let them put me in prison! If they do that, I really will kill myself!’

  There’s fear in Gemma’s eyes, desperation as she peers into the abyss.

  Laura squeezes her hand. ‘Don’t say that. Never, ever say that.’

  Then, the blow falls.

  ‘I did it,’ says Gemma. ‘I hit him. It was me.’

  Oh. My. God.

  Laura softens her voice, suppressing the panic inside. ‘What are you saying, Gemma? I don’t understand.’

  Gemma’s crying again.

  ‘It was my fault,’ she sobs. ‘He asked me to meet him by the pool and I shouldn’t have gone.’

  ‘Of course you shouldn’t,’ says Laura, and immediately regrets how judgemental she sounds. ‘Why on earth did he ask you to meet him?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mum, it’s obvious. Only I didn’t think it would be like that. I thought he was someone I could trust. I thought maybe he was planning some surprise for Izzy, or you. I never thought he’d do what he did.’

  Laura feels sick. ‘I’m so, so sorry. Is that why you’ve been so unhappy? Tell me exactly what he said, what you did. If it was an accident, the police will understand.’

  But common sense prevails over wishful thinking, and Laura immediately sees the unlikelihood of that being the case. Whoever hit Tris hit him hard, according to Izzy.

  She doesn’t want to think about what this will do to Izzy.

  Gemma brushes away tears. ‘I don’t want to tell you.’

  ‘Sweetie, I can’t help you if I don’t have the facts. What happened when you got to the pool?’

  ‘He was waiting with a bottle of champagne. I was so stupid, I still didn’t get it. He gave me a glass and I drank it. I’m sorry, Mum. I know you said no alcohol.’

  The least of our worries, thinks Laura. ‘Never mind about that. Just tell me what he did.’

  ‘He tried to kiss me. He told me I was beautiful and tried to touch my boobs, but when I said no he kind of changed and got really angry. He grabbed my wrists and it hurt. Then he said he’d always wanted me, how an older man would be good for me. He pushed me up against the wall, and I said no again and I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth with his hand. He was trying to pull my dress up and undo his trousers but his zip got stuck, so I saw my chance and picked up the bottle and I just hit him with it. I thought he was going to rape me, Mum. I didn’t know what else to do, but I hit him too hard. Now he’s dead and it’s all my fault.’

  Gemma drops her head, and Laura puts her arm across her back, remembering other times she’s comforted Gemma, in infancy and beyond.

  And as she soothes with maternal comfort, her rage against Tristan ignites, and the flames begin to grow.

  ‘Will I go to prison, Mum?’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You won’t go to prison if it was self-defence, sweetie. If he was going to rape you, you have the right to protect yourself.’

  Gemma sniffs. ‘I didn’t want to tell anyone. How could I prove I’m telling the truth? But they think Dad did it and it wasn’t him. I don’t want him to be in trouble instead of me.’

  A thought strikes Laura.

  ‘Is this why you took those tablets?’

  Gemma
nods. ‘I overheard what you and Dad were saying about Tristan being disabled, and I felt so bad. I thought it was the only way. I knew how mad you’d be, how everyone’s going to hate me.’

  ‘I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at Tristan. No one’s going to hate you when they know what happened. And don’t worry about your dad, either. He’ll know what we need to do. Sometimes it’s useful having a policeman in the family.’

  ‘But he’s not a policeman any more.’

  ‘He still knows how things work, and he’ll know what to do for the best. Anyway, Izzy’s told me some things which will make your story more likely to be believed. Or did you hear all about that too?’

  ‘It’s not a story, Mum, it’s what actually, really happened. And if you mean about those other women, yes, I did hear that. He was just an old pervert.’

  ‘What’s going to happen next?’ asks Laura. ‘Have they told you?’

  ‘They’re going to interview me. They’re waiting for a lawyer because that woman who was in the police car with me told me to say I wanted one.’

  My daughter needs a lawyer, thinks Laura. How did none of us see through him, when Tristan was such a complete and utter bastard?

  ‘All you need to do is tell the truth,’ she says. ‘When they know how it was, they’ll let you go.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Guaranteed. The police know what they’re doing, and they’re not going to put someone in prison who doesn’t deserve to be there.’

  Time spent in the sea air has been good for Izzy, improving her appetite, helping her sleep better than she’s done in a while. A smuggler’s cottage with no Wi-Fi and hopeless mobile signal has cut out the stress of calls and texts, and a place where no one knows her has provided freedom to relax and think things over.

  But almost as soon as they drive out of the seaside village, her phone begins to ping with messages, streaming in from the ether where they’ve been awaiting her return.

  She’s not ready yet to face the world. Paused at traffic lights, she switches the phone off.

  What difference could a couple of hours make?