Edward had little to say that was new. He heard the on-duty presenter as he clipped on his headphones. It was one of the old guard, Brian Channon. Standing on the street, staring at his shoes to concentrate, Edward felt his heart sink. Channon, aged seventy-two, was now an occasional weekend fill-in after being dropped from his daily show. Giving the so-called ‘Farmers’ the occasional shift was Aspinall’s way of keeping a lid on their fury – what was the phrase, ‘Better to have them inside the tentpissing out …’? – but it felt strange, hearing a dusty Bobby Vee song fade and then Channon’s voice, full of loathing for the presenter who had survived every cull and change of management: ‘Well, Edward Temmis on the line, from the church – well, well, did you get stuck in there?’
Alfie Burton was supposed to be introducing Edward and asking the questions, but of course Channon had completely bypassed the young man.
‘Met a lot of our listeners, all with questions,’ bluffed Edward.
‘And you, a qualified scientist, could answer them.’
‘I’m not even a qualified presenter, Brian, same as you.’ Edward kept the tone light.
Alfie Burton cut in bravely. ‘Brian, I can tell you the church was packed. People are still coming out. We brought every word of the news conference to our listeners so you’ve heard what was said. Do you have a question you want me to put to Edward?’
‘Why? Are his headphones broken?’ Channon laughed cruelly. Edward was sensing this might be the old stager’s last shift.
Edward tried to bring it back to the matter in hand, but as he did so his heart sank. Wendy Wrigley had emerged from the church and was standing by the wall, letting the crowds pass. She was wearing earphones. Was she listening to the radio station? He could not read her expression.
‘Today,’ he said, ‘we are all thinking of that poor child. Nina Lopez. Even if it turns out there was no wider risk to human life with the contents of the motorbike, even if we are left with an absolute mystery, even if the so-called Russian connection makes no sense and it was not, as the newspapers call it, “The Pizza Parlour Attack”, even if there was no Ukraine and no explosive, no radiation and no poisonous vapour, even if there was nothing, nothing to trouble us here in Sidmouth, a child died on our seafront. A family took their child to our promenade and a child with a future, who might have become a greatwriter or great scientist or great-grandmother, will be in a casket at a funeral this Saturday. We think of her. We think of the size of that casket, so small, so many years ungrown, so much life unlived. We all think of Nina. And of course, of Gabriel, the father, and her mum Andrea.’
Edward had accidentally eulogized the little girl, and to his surprise, when Channon’s voice came back on the line, the older sounded too choked to speak. ‘I have a – a great-great-grandchild on the way.’
Was that two greats, or one? It hardly mattered. ‘That brings it home, Brian, I know.’ Edward stared at his shoes, not wanting to think of his own lost son.
‘And it’s all such a mystery,’ concluded a tearful Channon. ‘Thanks mate. Edward Temmis there, outside St Giles and Nic’s, with reporter Alfie Brunton.’
So Alfie even got a namecheck? His surname had been scrambled, but perhaps the old man had a soul after all. Edward continued to gaze at his feet, headphones on, the thick hair on the back of his head heating up in the May sun. He was like a dog, always needing a haircut. The rhythm and power of his own words had caught Edward by surprise and made him realize that, however much of a let-off the scientist had given the town, they must never forget Nina. At the other end of the line, Channon was playing Simon and Garfunkel, ‘The Boxer’.Something tapped Edward’s arm. Still holding the microphone in his right hand, he pulled off the headphones with his left. Alfie Burton was pointing at Wendy Wrigley. Now his ears were not covered, he heard her clearly.
‘I need you to tell me what you know. I beg you. Whatever it is, however bad it is, I can take it.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ten minutes later, they were installed in the café nearest the church. The manager of the Sidmouth Museum had been at the press conference with his whistle, and now he was back on duty, he was making the most of the precious extra footfall by keeping the coffee shop open.
‘Don’t be angry with me, Mr Temmis.’
‘Edward. How could I be?’
‘I hijacked your broadcast.’
‘It was over. You had every right to.’
Through the window, he saw people walking quickly, like figures in a speeded-up film, as if the news conference itself had been a kind of radiation spill.
Poor Wendy Wrigley. Evidently she believed Edward had the solution. And he was sure he did; he had just wanted to check the location with Jordan Callintree, but Callintree was drowning in his pizza mess. The Toppings crash – already Edward’s mind had edited the word ‘attack’ from the description – had got in the way of him helping Wendy promptly. A waitress brought tea. He picked up the teaspoon and saw a fairground-mirror reflection of his guilty face.
He had asked for just one further, small delay. Kim would join them before he explained what he had discovered.
‘You know I mentioned five thousand pounds?’ Wendy prompted.
‘I don’t feel good about taking that, even for my listeners.’
‘Edward, it’s there if you want it.’
‘Thank you, Wendy,’ he said.
He glanced casually out of the window again at the thinning crowd around the church. He could just make out gold letters on a wooden board:
SACRED PARISH OF
SAINT GILES AND SAINT NICHOLAS.
