Chapter Thirty-Four
For many in the town, the days that followed were a rebirth.
The sun shone, as if confident enough to finally lift its head from behind the sofa-shaped clouds.
The Metropolitan Police cordon had been completely removed by the following morning – there were rumours of an intervention by the mayor of Sidmouth, who owned one of the smaller seafront hotels and was furious at having had to swap all his regulars for big-booted London cops – and the only restriction in place as day broke was a two-man police guard outside the burnt-out shell of the pizza parlour.
Devon Police had supplied the cover, which was symbolic.
They were reasserting control over their patch.
Jordan Callintree had insisted his men wore dark blue uniforms, not hi-vis.
Every clue had been extracted from Sidmouth Pizza Parlour.
Geiger counters had been poked and swept across every inch of floor and wall.
There was only the expected trace level of background radiation.
Not even a blip of anything that should not be there.
The fire had burnt the ampoules to nothing.
The locals were no less interested in the story – why on earth would a Ukrainian motorbike rider slam his bike into that restaurant in particular, and if it was an accident, what exactly was he carrying the dangerous ampoules for?
But in truth, once the tourists returned, the hysteria calmed to a hum of interest. People were busy, after all.
So the place snapped back to normality in a morning.
With one exception. One livid scar; one gaping wound.
The death of a four-year-old child might not have been caused by terrorism, but it was still a tragedy almost unimaginable to those used to the soft tidal rhythm of this Devon town.
There was not a single person who had not expressed their hurt and anger. Many had wept.
The funeral service for Nina Lopez that Saturday was, as the family had requested, compact. Edward checked his watch. He was grateful to be there. He was also hurt by the argument with Kim earlier in the week.
He’d been choosing his suit for the funeral when Kim explained that they were still on Stevie’s guest list.
‘I thought you said she had dumped Roddy.’
‘She’s marrying herself. Her monobrow man is out of the picture, thank God, but she’s going ahead with the event and we are all going to celebrate her.’ She saw his hesitation. ‘Don’t wobble on this, Edward. It’s eleven thirty.’
‘Oh, but … eleven is the Nina Lopez funeral. Marrying herself?’
‘She’s a girl with a burnt face who only ever respected and admired you!’
‘Oh, please don’t guilt me. I love Stevie! It’s just that—’
Kim calmed. ‘I know. Nina.’
‘I’ll come to both.’
‘You can’t. I can’t believe you even need to think about it.’
‘I can’t believe how guilty you’re making me feel,’ he replied, genuinely upset.
There had been no happy conclusion. Had Stevie been marrying her fiancé as planned, he would probably have attended.
Kim pointed out the contradiction – ‘You’ll attend if she’s getting manacled to her abuser, but not if she wants to celebrate freedom as a young woman?
’ He had resisted the pressure, because he was determined to attend the Lopez funeral.
So here he was. The church was a small modern one, with a sign outside that said DEVON PENTECOASTAL, a misspelling which had to be deliberate.
The church was bright with frosted windows and red-brick walls inside and out.
He looked down at the light wood floor and half-expected to see basketball court markings; the space could easily double as a gym.
The chairs were plastic. The vicar was a woman in a suit.
Edward sank into his seat and had been watching for a few minutes before he realized the empty chair next to him had been taken by a familiar figure.
Jordan Callintree wore his chief constable uniform. He sat upright and acknowledged Edward with a tight nod. They sang a hymn, ‘How Great Thou Art’. Edward became conscious of the weeping of relatives and whispered to Callintree, ‘A privilege to be here.’
The police officer did not reply. But a few minutes later, as the vicar delivered a long and heartfelt prayer (‘We cannot know, O Lord, your mysteries, your ways, but we know you love us and you know we must trust you with the course of history, the course of our lives, and of course, we trust, that of our child Nina, so cruelly taken’), Edward heard the whisper:
‘We must speak. Not now.’
Head bowed as if still in prayer, Edward folded the order of service, a thin piece of A5 that had obviously come out of a black-and-white printer, and wrote on it: ‘Have to leave quickly – late for wedding. Talk on phone?’
Callintree took the paper. Perhaps he was conscious that, with his uniform on, he was entirely recognizable and did not want to be The Policeman Who Chatted in a Funeral Service.
He did not reply for a few minutes. Then, as the prayer ended and the congregation resettled, he said: ‘I am so angry I’m about to explode. ’
Edward stared at him in surprise. He remembered how a younger Callintree had been the first cop to take seriously the death of his son and promise a real investigation.
He would always be grateful. There must have been something personal in his expression, because the policeman was prompted to say more.
He bent low and close to Edward’s ear as the sermon began.
‘Met stiffed me. Took advantage of me isolating. Did it all without me, cut me out, humiliating. Before that presser in the church, they even gave me wrong info to check I wasn’t leaking. Never been so angry.’
Edward whispered, ‘Looks like London has gone, though.’
Callintree said quietly into his ear, ‘London has gone so fast they left skid marks. Now it’s not terrorism …
’ He made a cutting motion with his hand.
‘Basically “Goodbye and good luck”. I get out of isolation and I have to motivate my people to investigate. I don’t even know what I’m investigating. ’
‘This,’ said Edward, gesturing towards the front of the church where the little girl’s coffin had now appeared.
Callintree sat up stiffly as if stung. They watched the progress of the coffin.
Edward wondered if he had heard right. He had filed reports on the church press conference, and he had seen the strange way Callintree had attended – on a remote TV link, with the monitor almost buried out of sight – but he never imagined there had been this level of anger within Devon Police.
He wondered if part of the reason for Callintree’s anger was because his rapid promotion had caused resentment among his colleagues, so they wanted him to fail; and he had no cover in a wider row.
He wondered if he and Callintree were actually more friendly than Edward realized.
The policeman’s tone was of a mate sharing a desperate confidence, not a police officer briefing a reporter.
‘We are both here in our official roles,’ whispered Edward. ‘Let’s talk outside.’
Callintree moved his shoulders and, as if remembering his peaked cap was still on his head, removed it.
The funeral continued. The conversation had meant Edward missed much of the sermon, but he found his eyes drawn constantly to Andrea Lopez.
She was pregnant and drawn, her cheeks gaunt and dark smudges beneath both eyes, as though she hadn’t slept since she’d last held Nina.
Edward remembered that hollowed-gut feeling so well, and he bowed his head in a shared grief.
The service ended. Edward was glad to have come. He was honoured to have been asked personally. Afterwards the close family withdrew. They would follow the coffin to a crematorium.
The vicar recognized him on the steps of the church. He spoke softly. ‘It was a private ceremony, Mr Temmis, but the Lopezes wanted you to know how grateful they have been for your work. I see the chief of police came too. An important gesture.’
It struck him that Gabriel and Andrea Lopez, and their entire family, had probably listened to his every broadcast because the police had been so sparing with their information.
Shaking the vicar’s hand, and seeing the man’s eyes blaze green in the bright daylight drenching the church entrance, Edward said: ‘I know this is private, but may I use a few of your words on the radio this afternoon?’
The vicar seemed almost to enlarge, like a pumped tyre. ‘You may. You may. They understand this part of the day cannot be completely private. If I may suggest—’
Luckily he was interrupted by the person behind Edward.
He walked briskly to his moped, conscious he was now running late for Stevie.
His bike was hidden between two SUVs in the church car park.
But as he turned the key in it, Jordan Callintree arrived in the space between the SUVs as if borne on a sharp gust of wind.
‘This is mine,’ he said, pointing at the car nearest Edward.
‘Leave your bike here and we can talk on the way.’ Callintree, now hatless and tieless, opened the side door for Edward. ‘Where to?’
‘You know Stevie Mason? She’s getting married.
But there’s a twist.’ Edward thought Callintree would be interested in the strangeness of the occasion – ‘marrying herself’ – yet the police officer seemed barely to listen as he drove them away from the church.
When the explanation was over, Callintree immediately changed the subject.
‘I may need your help, Mr Temmis.’
Edward looked over at Jordan Callintree and felt the tension and misery radiate. The clean-cut young officer looked beaten.
‘What can I do?’ Edward was struck by his disarray. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’
‘I’m broken, mate, to be frank.’ Callintree was indicating at a busy intersection, where the single-track road opened into a 50-mph carriageway with a bend. ‘If I can … whoooar!’