Chapter Twenty-Eight
Edward’s ribs ached. He could not twist. He could not laugh – not that there was anything to laugh about.
He had taken a day off work after the attack in his garden, and ordered a new phone.
The old one was still connected to the network – it must be on the rocks below the cliff, and it was tempting to climb down to try to locate it.
Because it was still registered, he had to get a new number and he’d lost all his contacts.
His stomach growled, as if a depression was taking root there, and he looked for anti-inflammatories to settle it. When he took two, he shut the bathroom mirror and saw the face of an old man. A beaten-up old man, he thought. Hurting all over, sad inside. That was him.
His body was bruised from the beating. He was sure at least one rib was broken.
He wandered about the house disconsolately.
He saw how his two assailants – real police, fake police?
– had got in. The side passage door had been prised open and they’d been lying in wait for him in the garden, which would not have been difficult.
And what were they telling him? Not to ask questions?
How the hell was he supposed to comply with that and keep working?
He was about to take his moped to Kim’s flat when she arrived at the end of his driveway in her Porsche.
She looked angry, but the frown dissolved from her face when he burst into tears.
‘What – honey, what?’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Where’ve you been? I tried to ring, you’ve been completely missing in action. You weren’t even on the radio last night – what’s going on?’
‘I got beaten up.’
‘What?’
He had to repeat it. She asked to see the injuries, as if she didn’t believe him. ‘Not out here,’ he said. They went inside and he stripped off to his boxers.
She put her hand over her mouth.
‘Literally black and blue.’
‘In Sidmouth?’ she exclaimed. ‘What did the hospital say?’
‘I haven’t been.’
‘Police?’
He had not even rung them, but he lied. ‘They just gave me a crime number.’
‘They need to see these bruises, honey! Go there in person! I should photograph you!’
‘Kim, they were dressed as – or they were – police officers. What if this pair were actual cops? I don’t want to make it worse. Jordan’s been sabotaged by his own officers – what if they’re all in on it? And the police are deep into their radiation investigation, and this is nothing by comparison.’
‘But it’s connected, right? It must be. They don’t want you asking questions. Why not?’
‘I thought everything was out there already,’ he said, embarrassed to still be crying.
‘They could have killed you.’
‘They were literally enormous. And ferocious. One of them screamed every time she hit me.’
‘She?’
‘He, she, I don’t know why I said that. I couldn’t tell. I thought they were trying to push me over.’
‘Over the cliff?’
‘We were right at the far end of the garden, where it’s crumbling away.’
‘Hey – stand by for a crazy thought – what if it was those two weirdos who are trying to buy the penthouse flat?’
‘The Asian woman is too slight,’ he said. ‘And wasn’t he short? This pair were seriously big and chunky. Both six foot. Their outfits were weird. Why would it be them?’
‘Bad people in pairs,’ she said. ‘Nothing more than that.’
‘That’s not quite the threshold required by a court,’ said Edward. They laughed. He was surprised to hear his own laughter. ‘Have you not thrown them off the trail, the penthouse pair?’
‘We’re on a go-slow with them, which I hope works. They do keep ringing though. Mad about the flat. They’re not getting it, the weird bastards.’ She looked tenderly at him. ‘You’ll be okay. So do you think “Stop asking questions” was about the radiation and your radio show?’
‘Maybe,’ Edward hedged. ‘But you know what? It also made me think of Wendy Wrigley. I asked questions because she wanted me to. I need to speak to her. It kind of got washed away, all that crossbow stuff. I left it hanging. I wanted something from Jordan Callintree, but I can’t face chasing him.’
‘He did well out of that professor outburst.’
‘Did he? The guy has to lead an investigation from a locked room somewhere, and the Met are taking charge of everything.’
‘Mate,’ she said tenderly, ‘you need to take it easy.’
‘I can’t. I’m in today, and I saw that the Met have a big press conference at six p.m. Aspinall will want me to cover it; not that he can get in touch with me to tell me so.’
‘Those bruises are absolutely horrible.’
‘They wore latex masks,’ he said.
‘You never got a crime number, did you? You didn’t go to the police at all, did you?’
His silence was as good as a yes.
‘Edward. Why not?’
‘I want us to solve it,’ he said. ‘I want you, me and Stevie to work out what the hell happened at the pizza parlour.’
‘Oh my love,’ Kim sighed. ‘It might just be a question we never find the answer to.’
He immediately remembered the giants in his garden: Stop the fucking questions. ‘Hey, that note I got. The same wording. “Stop your questions”. The same people?’
‘God, you’re right, it must be,’ said Kim, and her hand trembled as it slipped within his own.
When he got into work, Kim’s concealer covering the marks on his face, he made sure to arrive early so he could watch the press conference and then go straight on air.
Aspinall was surprisingly cordial.
‘You okay? A bug?’
‘I was laid out,’ said Edward, truthfully. ‘But just a one-day thing.’
‘Have you got anything for us from your sources? What are they going to say at this press conference then?’
Edward could have given a long answer to cover his lost phone, something about the difficulty of ringing someone who didn’t want to be rung, the physical impossibility of extracting a reply from a man who was isolating on the top floor of police headquarters, but instead he just said: ‘Nope.’
Aspinall had an unsmoked cigar protruding from the top pocket of his jacket, the brown of the tobacco leaf camouflaged by the material of the jacket, the exact same shade, and he wondered if the cigar was there for a celebration.
Douglas saw him staring and withdrew the cigar. ‘I have my own scoop today, and this is my reward.’
‘Go on.’
‘Prime minister’s coming down. Sometime after the Met do their presser in the church.’
‘Can I interview him?’
‘I have a contact at Number Ten. I’m trying, believe me.
The PM hasn’t heard of you, obviously, but we’ve sold it on the basis that it would go live on the entire RTR network, all sixteen stations.
Waiting to hear.’ He put the unlit cigar in his mouth, thought better of it, replaced it in his jacket pocket.
‘What do you want from me today?’ asked Edward.
‘Get down to the church for the presser, be in the actual building, okay? We are taking the whole thing live. Afterwards you can give us the post-match.’
‘What, like analysis?’
‘The full Gary Neville. What are we expecting?’
Edward was embarrassed to admit his absolute lack of intel; Jordan Callintree’s private number had been on his missing phone. ‘Worst-case scenario, they say yes, this was a nuclear attack on Sidmouth and they give some sort of read-out. They’ve made a great play of announcing developments.’
Melody came in. ‘Someone is calling you. Stevie Mason? The office phone.’
To Aspinall’s questioning glance, Edward replied: ‘My mobile died.’
The controller said, ‘Melody – can you fix him up with a new one? It’s vital. He needs to keep asking questions. Meantime, give him yours.’
Melody looked like Aspinall had asked her to give him one of her legs or an arm.
The ‘ask questions’ exhortation made Edward shiver, and the sea of bruises across his body lit up in response.
Melody put Stevie’s call through to the tiny news booth and Aspinall waited outside to give Edward privacy.
Again, Edward pulled the cable from the bottom of the microphone to be sure.
‘Stevie?’
At the other end he heard a dramatic clearing of throat. ‘Where’ve you been? I couldn’t reach you! It’s just so fucking shite, and excuse my French.’
‘I’m so sorry Stevie, I know how much you wanted the wedding to happen this Saturday.’
She sniffed again. ‘I kicked Roddy out. Kim showed me the truth of it. Anyways, I’m calling ’cause the victims had a briefing from the police but it was fucking useless. Can you tell me anything?’
‘God. I’m sorry for Roddy.’
‘Why would you feel sorry for him?’ she said, misunderstanding.
‘I’m sorry for you is what I mean.’
She did not rebuff the offer of sympathy, suggesting hurt she was hiding. ‘Have you got any news, Edward?’
‘I thought you might tell me.’
‘Fucking bastard Russians if it’s them. It’s all doom and gloom. Are you going to be in the church for the press thing? Can you ask them how long everyone has to isolate for? Just ask for me, as a mate? Don’t name me, obviously. It might be bloody years at this rate.’
‘I’ll ask, I promise.’ He wondered whether he could go to air simply with the phrase ‘doom and gloom’, but as his mind turned she sighed, long and loud.
She sounded like a broken version of herself.
‘I’m so sorry, Stevie. My heart is breaking for you and I know Kim’s is too.
The presser will be on the radio in full, you know? ’
‘I’ve got the TV on and they’re just showing shots of the empty church.’
‘I’ve got to get down there. Hey,’ he said, ‘give me your number and Callintree’s if you can. My phone died.’
He wrote them down, and then she said: ‘I’m glad to help. Thanks, Edward, thanks for being my fucking friend.’