The man at the door, Ben and Hamza both had to admit, did have a certain Christ-like quality about him. He had worked hard to cultivate it, too, not just in his physical appearance and the way he dressed, but in the air of calm and serenity he worked so very hard to project.
“Bonjour. I was told to meet Detective Chief Inspector Logan here,” he said, still standing outside while the three detectives stared at him in equal parts confusion and amusement.
“You’re French,” Tyler told him.
“Oui. Yes. My name is André Douville. I am the chaperone at Westerly Wellness. You know, the retreat?”
“On the wall. In the caravan,” Tyler said.
It was André’s turn to look confused. “Pardon?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Hamza. “We’ve heard of you, aye.”
“You’d best come in,” Ben said, stepping aside. “DCI Logan isn’t back yet, but if he said to meet him here, I’d imagine he’ll be here soon. You can come in and wait.”
While André hitched up his long white robe and stepped inside, Tyler stole a glance at his watch. “Don’t forget we’re meant to be going to the pub for lu…” he began, then he course corrected. “…for the investigation. To investigate. For the purposes of…” He tapped the watch. “We were going to go there in half an hour.”
“Aye, well, I’m sure we can delay it, if necessary,” Ben said. Try as he might, though, he was unable to hide his own disappointment. “For a few minutes, anyway. Here, Mr…”
“Douville.”
“Take a seat. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”
André lifted his nose higher in the air, like he was sniffing out his options. “What kinds of tea do you have?”
Ben pulled a buggered if I know face and looked to Tyler and Hamza for assistance.
“Think it was PG Tips,” Tyler said.
Before André could respond, someone else answered on his behalf.
“Oh, he won’t touch any of that shite,” Logan said, ducking through the door. “If it’s not a squashed lavender chai, an oak leaf espresso, or a bloody… horse shit lozenge, he’s no’ interested.”
The DCI pointed to the two doors that led off from the cramped reception area. “Is one of these the interview room?”
“That’s where we’ve set up the Big Board,” Ben said, indicating one of the doors.
Logan nodded, put a hand on André’s back, and guided him in the direction of the other one. “Right, then this’ll be where we do the interviews. In we go, Mr Douville.”
He steered the other man into the room he’d just claimed, vanished in after him, then reappeared half a second later, jabbing a finger at the rest of the team. “And if you bastards even think about going for lunch before I’m ready, you’re all fired.”
Tyler caught up with Sinead near the village centre, where she was giving Taggart his first proper walk of the day. The dog still had wee legs and an inquisitive nose, so even the short trek from the car park to the shops had taken nearly ten minutes, and they were barely halfway there.
“Alright stranger?” he said, jogging up behind her and putting a hand on her back. After a quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching—they were both technically on duty, after all—he leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
“Hiya,” Sinead said, running a hand down the inside of his arm.
Taggart, who had been devoting every ounce of his attention to a leaf lying on the pavement, suddenly realised that Tyler was there, and sprung at him, his muddy front paws slapping excitedly at the DC’s thighs.
“My trousers! Watch my… argh! He does that on purpose. I’m sure of it. I think the boss has got him trained, or something,” Tyler said, brushing the mud off his breeks. Or trying to, anyway.
Sinead smirked. “I doubt he’d take the time to…” She thought about it, then nodded. “No, you’re probably right. He’ll have trained him to do it.”
They fell into step. They had both been out of Uniform for a while now—Tyler longer than Sinead—but neither had lost the knack for that synchronised stepping that all Bobbies on the beat developed. They moved in perfect unison, like they were performing some well-rehearsed choreographed dance.
“Anyway, it’s just a bit of mud on your trousers,” Sinead said. “I’ve had the same clothes on since yesterday morning. Didn’t expect to be away overnight.”
“Aye, I thought you were absolutely honking, right enough,” Tyler said, which earned him a playful dunt. “There’s a shower at the B&B. It’s the tiniest shower in the world, though, in the most cramped en suite bathroom I’ve ever seen. You’ve got to open the bathroom door to put down the toilet seat.”
“Since when do you put down the toilet seat?” Sinead asked.
Tyler laughed. “Aye, well, no. But in theory, you would. I haven’t tested it.”
They continued walking in the direction of the shop. There had been a thin, smirry sort of rain wafting about the place all morning, but it had stopped now, and the air smelt crisp and new. They were far enough from any foliage to limit the number of midges knocking about, too, so the stroll was a pleasant one.
“We were talking to Shona. Video call,” Tyler ventured.
“PM results?”
“Aye. Mostly,” he said. Then, a few paces further on, he asked, “Have you spoken to her recently?”
“Not really. Just in passing.”
“Did she seem, you know, alright?”
“Eh, aye. Fine. Like I say, though, it was just in passing. Why? Did she not seem alright to you?”
Tyler shrugged. “Dunno. Just came across as a bit… manic.”
“She’s always a bit like that though, isn’t she?” Sinead pointed out.
“Well, yeah. But… I dunno.” Tyler kicked a stone, and Taggart shot after it, then jerked to a stop when the lead went tight. “She hadn’t been home. Stayed in the hospital all night.”
“Did she say why?”
“Just for the PM, I think,” Tyler said. “But she’d been knocking back the caffeine to stay awake.” He watched his legs swinging beneath him for a moment, then asked the question that was troubling him. “You think she’s like, traumatised, or something? About everything that happened? Because, she went through a lot.”
Sinead hesitated, like she sensed some sort of trap approaching. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Because it would be. It must be. Traumatising. Something like that,” Tyler continued. He still hadn’t looked at her, and was instead focusing on their synchronised steps. “It must leave a mark. In, like, your brain. Or whatever. It must do damage.”
“I… suppose so.”
“And, well, she should talk to someone, shouldn’t she?” Tyler continued. “If she’s still having problems with it. If she’s still struggling to process it. She should say. She should come out with it. She shouldn’t bottle it up.”
Sinead shot him a sideways glance. “Eh, no. No, I suppose she shouldn’t.”
“Because it could help. It could really help, I think. Telling someone she trusts. Someone who cares for her.”