“I’m good thanks, any idea where Leon is?” I ask, sweeping my eyes across the bank of monitors on the desk.
“Mmm, there’s a lot of activity today,” he says, seeing me looking. “Everyone’s getting ready for tomorrow.”
I smile.
“It doesn’t make my job very easy,” he goes on. “There’s been people here all through the night. How am I to know whether they’re supposed to be on-site or not?”
“I guess you just need to stand down security between now and the concert,” I say. “Otherwise you’ll get an alert every two minutes.”
“That’s what Leon said,” says Tristan. “I’ve turned off most of the cameras and I’m just getting rid of all the footage from last night.”
I watch as he blocks out a thirty-minute frame of time with his mouse and presses delete, before repeating the process again. “I’ll be here all day,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“So no sign of Leon anywhere?” I ask again.
“He was over by the stage the last time I saw him,” says Tristan.
“Thanks, I’ll try him there.”
I follow the gravel drive away from the main house, walking down through the copse before it opens onto the sprawling lawns of the concert site. There are people everywhere, carrying out tasks like a colony of worker ants, each with a specific job to complete.
Music is being intermittently blasted through the sound system and there is a palpable sense of anticipation, a mixture of excitement and tangible stress, but perhaps the latter is just emitting from Leon. He’s over by a speaker that’s almost as big as he is, gesticulating wildly to the group of men in front of him.
I take my time to approach, knowing that seeing me is most likely going to create even more tension in Leon’s already taut shoulders.
I’m proved right when his lips pull into a grimace, as if he has a bad taste in his mouth.
“OK, I’ll come back and see how you’re getting on in an hour’s time,” he says, walking away from the men and toward me.
“How’s it all going?” I ask earnestly; my attempt at an olive branch.
“We’re getting there,” he says. “Slowly but surely.”
“It’s looking great.”
“What’s up?” he says, walking away with purpose. I guess he’s expecting me to follow him.
“I don’t want to be arguing and fighting all the time,” I say. “We’ve both got a lot on our plates and we should be supporting each other, not going out of our way to make things difficult.”
“You’re doing that all by yourself,” he says spitefully.
“Look, I know that sometimes I frustrate you, especially where my work and clients are concerned, but I’m only ever trying to do my best by them. It shouldn’t come between us. They’re two very separate things.”
“Except you continue to blur the lines,” he says, striding so fast that I have to walk-run to keep up with him.
“OK, so I admit that I might not always act in as professional a manner as you’d like, but it’s never done to hurt or upset you.”
He stops stock-still and turns to face me. “Isn’t it?” he asks.
“Of course not,” I say, half laughing.
“Well, if that was the case, you’d tell me exactly what’s going on at the flat then,” he says.
My mouth dries up and I swallow the regret that I haven’t been honest with him. About the flat, about Jacob, about the police …
“Leon, I—”
“I’m not going to do this now,” he says dismissively. “I’ve got enough to deal with.”
The strain of everything he’s trying to juggle is evident by his furrowed brow and wide eyes. He looks like a rabbit caught in headlights and I wonder for the first time whether he’s taken on too much. Not helped by me.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask. “If you just point me in the right direction…”
He shakes his head. “Haven’t we got house guests this afternoon?”
“Yes, but not until early evening. Anna’s gone shopping to get the bits she and the children need, to save her from going back to the house.”
His jaw spasms. “And we’re supposed to continue this charade of everything being fine between us all the time she’s here, are we?”
“It’s just a couple of days,” I say. “Let’s get the weekend over and done with, and then we can sit down when we’re less stressed and talk everything through.”
He nods tightly and goes to walk away, but I grab his hand, forcing him to turn back and look at me.
“I do love you,” I say, as tears instantly spring to my eyes.
“I love you too,” he says, though it sounds as if he’s got a gun to his head.
As I begin to walk back in the direction of the cottage, there’s a tap on the microphone that booms around the site.
“Testing, testing,” comes a voice, so close that the speakers screech.
I can’t help but flinch at the unwelcome sound penetrating my fragile eardrums.
I instinctively turn to see a man standing on the stage, looking as if he’s living out all his teenage fantasies.
“He-llo Tattenhall!” he yells, before smiling as if imagining a raucous response. “I’d like to pretend that I’m about to launch into ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ but unfortunately all I have to offer is a credit card I’ve just found over there.” He points to the area of long grass that runs into the coppice I’m walking toward. “So if you or someone you know is called … Michael Talbot—”
My ears shut off any sound. My feet stop moving. He couldn’t have said what I thought he said. But as I shake my head, trying to banish the fragments of doubt, the man on stage only serves to compound them.
“So no takers?” he booms. “Well, OK then, but if the elusive Michael Talbot doesn’t claim it soon, I’ll be heading to the pub with it after work and the drinks are on me.”
I force myself forward, struggling to stay upright as I stumble through the undergrowth. My lungs can’t work quickly enough as I suck in the air I need to stop myself from keeling over. I can’t help but feel as if I’m an unwitting guest at a murder mystery party, trying to figure out the macabre clues that are being left like pieces of cheese; every single one of them luring me toward the spring-loaded, cast-iron jaws of a mousetrap.
15
I don’t remember the route I took home, but my senses are returned to sharp clarity by the dark blue Ford sitting on the drive.
“Ah, Mrs. Chandler,” says the policewoman from yesterday as she appears from around the side of the cottage. I immediately feel as if I’ve been caught out and my cheeks flush.
“Detective Inspector Robson,” she says, flashing her ID. “And you remember my colleague, Detective Sergeant Harris. May we come in?”
“What’s this about?” I ask, as I put the key into the front door.
“Some new information has come to light about Michael Talbot that I hope you might be able to help us with.”
Does she know about the credit card? Might she have overheard the announcement on the loudspeaker?
“I’ve told you all I know,” I say, as my mouth instantly dries up.
“Not on this matter, you haven’t,” says Robson.
She’s trying her best to keep the accusatory tone from her voice, but suspicion and distrust drip from every syllable. My chest tightens as I push the door open, knowing that her doubt in my story is validated.
“So, how can I help you?” I ask, as the three of us stand in the living room. They won’t be staying long enough to warrant offering them a seat.
“We found Mr. Talbot’s phone in his flat,” says Harris.
I wonder if I should comment on how odd that is. That no one goes anywhere without their phone these days. Otherwise, it looks as if I already know that Jacob has.
“He wouldn’t have left without his phone, surely?” I say, looking between them. “Not if he’d gone willingly.”
“It’s of some concern,” says Robson. “But it has meant that we’ve been able to access all of Mr. Talbot’s recent activity.”
“Great,” I say feebly. “Hopefully we’ll get some answers.”
They look at each other before Harris takes a phone out of his inside pocket and swipes it open.