‘Shall we keep the pen?’ asked the woman, unaware that Edward and Kim had already declined.
‘We said we’d return it. But we don’t know where they live.’
‘Well,’ said the woman, ‘my name is Beatrice. We obviously don’t do data protection here in Sidmouth, so it wouldn’t be a problem to tell you if we knew. But I’m not sure. Give me your number, one of you, and I’ll ask around.’
Edward handed Melody’s number over to Beatrice, less and less convinced that he was right about what he had seen. They had been dressed in badly fitting police uniforms and had worn masks. Surely he could not swear they were the same pair who’d attacked him?
But he could.
They were.
He knew it.
Kim and Edward left the church silently, the job undone.
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 hecarrying 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. Marryingherself?’
‘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 gettingmanacled 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.’
