Limelight, p.29
Limelight, page 29
‘You’re telling me they can’t afford to take me to court?’
‘I’m telling you they’ve got a very thin case. Mercy killings are notoriously difficult and in your case, I doubt they can prove you were there at the time.’
‘Good.’ I manage a smile. ‘Because I wasn’t.’
Andrea pops out to fetch us a spot of lunch, and when she returns, she has the broadest of smiles on her face. She’s been talking to the custody sergeant and it appears that I’m free to leave.
‘You mean it’s over?’ I can’t believe it. In her absence I’ve been fretting again about McFaul’s note. Now this.
‘Not quite,’ she says. ‘They’re not insisting on police bail, but Bullivant is making it very clear that he hasn’t finished with you. He’s the senior investigating officer. What he says matters. Given what I know about him, I suspect he won’t give up.’
‘And this goes on for how long?’
‘Until they make a charging decision.’ She smiles again. ‘Or not. They call the latter NFA.’
No further action? Just now, nothing could seem less likely, but I tuck this little phrase away like an amulet, something to protect me in the days and weeks to come. Andrea has been honest enough to make it clear that my trials are far from over, but she’s happy with my performance in the interview suite and is certain that I’ve given DI Bullivant something to think about.
‘First thing this morning,’ she says, ‘he assumed it was all over. I can read the bloody man like a book. He thought he’d have a cough by lunchtime, latest.’
‘Cough?’
‘Full confession. Happily, it turned out he was wrong. Never make any assumptions in this game. They always come back to haunt you.’
‘And the others?’
‘They’ve all gone “no comment”, not a peep from any of them. They’ll be released, too. You’ll all get together, I’m sure you will, but just a word of advice. Do I hear a yes?’
‘Of course.’
‘Be very careful what you say. To anyone. Just stick to your story. You tell it very well, as you should, but if this little saga is to have a happy ending, you’ve got to button your lip. By all means get blind drunk tonight, but take care about the company you keep. Bullivant hates losing. He won’t give up, I promise you.’
Take care about the company you keep. Andrea offers me a lift back to Budleigh, but I can imagine how busy she is, and I tell her I’m happy to take the bus. I’ve never been on the 58 service before but my perch on the back seat, with my cheek pressed to the coldness of the window, feels inexpressibly wonderful. This is freedom, I tell myself, all the sweeter for being so unexpected. The rest of the day I shall spend with Evelyn. I trust her completely, and in the light of Andrea’s warning that might be important.
Fat chance. When I finally get to the bungalow, it’s Mitch who opens the front door.
‘Christ,’ he says. ‘You’ve escaped.’
He has his mobile pressed to his ear. Evelyn must have been feeding him again because he has crumbs of toast all over his Liverpool shirt. I step inside, glad of the sudden warmth. Evelyn appears from the kitchen, stares at me as if I wasn’t quite real, and then gives me a long hug, just to check.
‘You’re all right?’ She’s holding me at arm’s length.
‘I’m fine. A bit tired, but OK.’
‘They didn’t hurt you?’
‘Of course they didn’t hurt me. No bruises. No missing teeth.’
‘But in here, my lovely.’ She has a hand clasped to her chest. ‘That kind of hurt.’
‘Ah …’ I manage to summon a smile, and then nod towards the kitchen. ‘Tea, maybe?’
Mitch joins us shortly afterwards. He’s finished his phone call but leaves the mobile on the kitchen table where he can see it. It seems to be ringing non-stop. He checks caller ID each time but resists the temptation to pick it up.
‘So, tell me what happened,’ he grunts.
‘Us,’ Evelyn says. ‘Tell us what happened.’
I do my best. Both of these people, I tell myself, have my best interests at heart, though possibly for different reasons, but the more detail I get into, the more uneasy I feel. In the end, I try to boil it down to a single proposition.
‘They want me to admit that I was there when she died,’ I say.
‘But you weren’t.’ This from Evelyn.
‘I know. That’s what I kept telling them. The police live in a world of their own. And they’re not great listeners.’
‘You mean they didn’t believe you?’ Mitch seems amused.
‘Not at all. They’ve built themselves a little fantasy about the way Christianne died. I suppose that’s their job, but I’m the one they want to put beside her when she left us. Me and Andy. The long goodbye.’
‘Nice title.’
‘Horrible title. Excuse my French but they fuck with your head, turn you round and round until you’ve no idea where you are, who you are, or even what matters any more. Maybe I should treat it as some kind of masterclass. What it really feels like to be on the receiving end. Next time I play the innocent victim, I promise you I’ll win an award.’
Mitch’s phone is buzzing yet again. This time, he picks it up, listens to the voice at the other end, then hands it across.
‘For you,’ he says. ‘Beth.’
Beth announces she’ll be arriving at the bungalow within minutes. By now, we’ve decamped to Evelyn’s lounge, and I’m inspecting a poster that Mitch has commissioned from a local graphics studio. I’m about to tell Beth she’s welcome, but it’s too late because she’s hung up.
‘It’s just a rough proof.’ Mitch nods at the poster. ‘We’ll obviously have to change the shoutline.’
The poster features mug shots of myself, Bill Penny, Sylvester, Nathan, Beth and Presley. God knows where Mitch laid hands on them, but what really grabs my attention is the bannered line across the top, and the three lines of text beneath.
‘Free the Budleigh Six?’ I shake my head. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘Not at all. We’ll need to change it now. You’re on bail?’
‘No.’
‘Shame. Have they abandoned the enquiry?’
‘Far from it.’
‘Then we’ll go for Clear the Budleigh Six.’ He nods at the copy beneath. ‘Read on.’
I do his bidding. A meeting has been convened in the public hall tomorrow night. It will start at half past seven and people with an interest in a decent society are urged to attend. Speakers will include a stand-up comic, huge on Channel Four, plus a handful of local luminaries.
A ring on the front doorbell brings Beth into the room. I can always tell when she’s excited because she has a tendency to catch her breath. Just now, she’s hyperventilating.
‘Thank God.’ She throws her arms round me. ‘We were all fearing the worst.’
‘We?’
‘The rest of us.’ She nods at the poster of the Budleigh Six. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not being a wuss, but I truly don’t. A couple of hours ago I was anticipating the rest of my life in jail. Now this.’
‘They’ve charged you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Excellent. Join the gang.’
The gang? I’m looking at Mitch. I’m very keen for someone to tease just a splinter of sense from all this clamour, and he’s the only one I really trust. Beth, typically, is about to take over because that’s the role God’s assigned her, but just now I need a little peace.
‘Come with me.’ I take Mitch by the arm. ‘Please.’
We return to the kitchen. I shut the door and wedge a chair beneath the handle. Then I join him at the table.
‘Just tell me what’s going on. That’s all I want to know.’
Mitch nods. He seems to understand. The mass arrests, he says, have gone viral. Social media is firing on all cylinders – Facebook, Twitter, God knows where else – and the developing story has built up a massive head of steam. First the landslip. Then the coffin and the body on the beach. And now an ex-ambassador and a QC, to name but two upstanding citizens of this little town, dragged from their beds and placed under arrest. Not for something of passing interest. But for conspiracy to murder.
‘Have we got this wrong?’ Mitch enquires. ‘Is this something we’ve invented?’
‘Of course not.’
‘We agree on the facts? You were all arrested? Photographed? Fingerprinted? Held overnight? Interviewed God knows how many times? Was that what happened?’
‘Yes.’ I can’t disagree.
‘And you don’t think people, a wider audience, the whole fucking world, doesn’t need to be aware of what’s going on?’
I stare at him. I’m lost for words. I haven’t a clue what to say. All I can hear is a voice in my head and it belongs to Bullivant. We gather the evidence, he’s insisting. And the rest will be down to a jury.
‘They want to put us on trial,’ I manage at last. ‘For breaking the law.’
‘I’m sure they do. All we’re doing now is speeding things up a little. We need people to have their say. First here. Then a much wider audience. The point is this. The poor bloody woman was heading for a death most of us can’t imagine. Tomorrow night we’re going to explore what that death would have been like.’
‘How?’
‘We’ve got permission to use the Palo Alto footage. The Guardian has commissioned its video unit to knock some other stuff together. MND families. First-person witness. Other victims nearing the end. We’ll screen it all, then have a debate. It’ll be a clusterfuck, I guarantee it, but that’s in all our interests, most of all – dare I say it – yours.’
‘Clusterfuck?’ I’m losing it again. This is becoming a habit.
‘Huge media interest. The tabloids en masse. Three of the grown-up papers. Half a dozen news crews. Think satellite trucks. Think Channel Four News. Think Emily Maitlis. This will be the party no one dare miss. You thought the cliff fall turned into a media circus?’ Mitch rarely grins. ‘Just wait until tomorrow night.’
I nod, trying to keep my head above water beneath this torrential flood of images.
‘Sounds like a crusade,’ I mutter.
‘Exactly.’ The irony, for once, is lost on Mitch. ‘And you know the best of it? We’re catching a brand-new government as it’s beginning to hatch. That makes it a political story. Johnson thinks in headlines. Tabloid approval is meat and drink to him. Lose the Telegraph or the Daily Mail, and he can’t sleep at night. They’re both sending feature people down today to write colour pieces. These are their top writers, the scribblers who really know how to stir the pot, and they know exactly how to touch the nerve that matters. Christianne should have been allowed to die in peace. That cliff fall was nobody’s fault, but what’s happened since is. Leave her memory alone. Stop wasting public money. Call the dogs off. Put Bullivant out to grass.’ Another grin. ‘Clear the Budleigh Six.’
The Budleigh Six? Would I really choose to share a poster with company like this? The whole thing, I tell myself, is bizarre, but just now I don’t appear to have a choice. I don’t doubt Mitch’s sincerity for a moment. He’s forever trying to give the Tories a kicking and just now must feel like the perfect opportunity. A chance to get the people on their feet, he’ll tell me. An opportunity to listen to the true voice of the masses. Parliament’s moment has come and gone. MPs of every stripe have blown it. Ignore democracy’s middlemen. Go straight to where it matters, to our sainted grass roots.
I accompany Mitch back to the lounge. Beth, predictably, is on her phone. She brings the conversation to an abrupt end and tells me that she’s already made contact with the feature writer from the Daily Telegraph and expects to be interviewed any time now. In the meantime, the Sun is offering her a sizeable sum of money for what she calls ‘the inside story’, and only her lawyer stands between her and national celebrity. The investigation is ongoing. Any revelations might be prejudicial. Only if the police drop the case, and abandon the investigation, will any of us be free to talk.
‘So what’s the point of tomorrow night?’ I’m looking at the bloody poster. ‘Or you talking to the Telegraph?’
‘Because it’s about Chris, about euthanasia, about the principle of the thing, not about us. I was talking to the guys in Palo Alto about an hour ago. They agree it’s a real opportunity to bust the whole issue wide open. We have to do it, Enora. And with your profile, you have to join us.’
Bust wide open? I can’t help thinking of the coffin on the beach, of the splintered marine ply, of the remains of Beth’s farewell artwork, and of the shrouded figure that was once Christianne.
‘They told you about the dog?’ I’m looking at Beth. ‘About finding Hundchen?’
‘They did. And I’ve forgiven him.’
‘Forgiven who?’
‘Bill, of course. He told me she’d gone missing, just wandered off, and I believed him. In fact, he told everyone.’
‘So, you didn’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘That she was in that coffin? With Christianne?’
‘God, no.’ She’s looking at her mobile again. ‘How could I?’
I watch her for a moment, her long fingers busy on the keypad tapping out a reply to some text, and I know that Andrea was right. Step back into the maze that is Operation Bulldog, try to sieve fact from fantasy, and my grip on what matters immediately begins to weaken. Was Beth there when they buried Christianne? Did she help carry the coffin? Does she have a tame dealer with access to limitless quantities of Fentanyl? And would she ever tell me if any of those things happened to be true? Not only do I doubt it, but I’m fast coming to the conclusion that I don’t really care. All that matters is keeping Bullivant at arm’s length.
‘I haven’t been sleeping too well.’ I’m looking at Mitch. ‘I might go upstairs for a nap.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
I must have been asleep for a while because it’s dark outside when I hear a tap on the bedroom door. It’s Beth. The woman from the Telegraph is downstairs and wants a word with me. She’s really nice, too, and sees the issue exactly our way.
‘Tell her I’m asleep,’ I mutter. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
‘She’s filing tonight. She needs quotes. Her circulation’s massive. She’s truly out there. Just half an hour? Is that asking too much?’
Beth never takes no for an answer. I struggle out of bed. A single glance in the mirror confirms I’m not fit for a meeting like this.
‘Don’t worry.’ Beth is watching me like a hawk. ‘Mitch says she’ll use a stock photo. In fact, she’s already been in touch with your agent.’
‘She’s talked to Rosa?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
I suspect that Rosa, who thrives on a good crisis, will be having the time of her life. With luck, she’ll use this media shit storm to break the news about the French series. Dimanche, I think grimly. Starring a suspected murderer.
Downstairs, Evelyn has assigned the woman from the Telegraph a seat at the kitchen table. She’s petite, pretty under a layer of make-up, and far younger than I’d imagined.
‘Carole-Anne.’ She gets up and extends a limp hand. ‘I loved Arpeggio.’
‘That’s kind. This is all a bit sudden. I’m not quite sure how I can help you.’
‘No problem. It won’t take long. You mind if I record this?’ She swipes her mobile without waiting for an answer, and finds the right icon, and watching her flip back through her notepad, I feel like I’m in the hands of a hard-pressed dentist. Ten minutes max. And it won’t hurt.
‘You don’t really know this place. Am I right?’
‘You are, yes.’
‘Outsider? Would that be fair?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what do you make of it?’
This is a clever question and there’s absolutely no legal reason why I shouldn’t answer it.
‘It’s a little bit of England writ small,’ I say carefully. ‘A lot of people here have money. Many of them have come down from London. They’ve been successful. They’re used to what success and money and making your own decisions does to your life. They take all of that for granted.’
‘Post-aspirational? Does that nail it?’
It’s a beguiling phrase, and I wonder whether it’s original.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It does. This place is beautiful. It’s quiet. It minds its own business.’
‘Wants to be left alone?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘On its own terms?’
‘Yes.’
I can see where this little exchange is headed, and I start to wonder whether Carole-Anne has been talking to Mitch. He, too, paints a picture of an entire town, a whole community, turning its back on the rest of the kingdom. Much like the Brits and Europe.
Carole-Anne is writing herself a note. She wants to know about Christianne. Was she, too, an outsider?
‘She was French,’ I say at once. ‘That may be the same thing. She’d lived all over the world, often in some bloody awful places. That gives you a certain mindset. You know how to look after yourself. You make your own way.’
‘A bit like the town itself?’
I gaze at her a moment. In truth, I’ve never made this particular link, but now she’s pointed it out, I can only agree.
‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘And is that why she made so many friends? Fitted in so perfectly?’ She gestures at her notepad. ‘I must have done a dozen little interviews already and I’ve yet to meet anyone who won’t be at that meeting tomorrow night. People want to protect her memory, and they think the police are way out of line. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?’
‘About Christianne?’
‘Of course.’ She’s smiling now. ‘But about this little place, too.’
Brilliant, I think. Embattled Budleigh taking up the cudgels on behalf of its own. What a great headline. No wonder half the London media are already on the road, heading south-west.
