‘Is it just me?’ says Harriet as she and Manon gaze at the CCTV footage of Tony Wright’s various movements on the weekend of 17–18 December.
‘It isn’t just you,’ says Manon.
‘What the fuck’s he up to?’ asks Harriet.
‘Guys, Kim, Davy, come and look at this.’
They amble over, their faces in various states of disarray after the night before: Kim’s looks like a doughnut with eyes; Davy is sporting bed hair (‘Been to the Vidal Sassoon night salon, I see, Davy,’ says Manon). Nigel is permanently ravaged by sleep-deprivation, so he looks the same as always.
They look at the screen, amid yawns and eye-rubbing.
Tony Wright traversing the Arbury’s open walkways, various angles, jaunty. Coy glances at the camera. Tony Wright entering The Coach pub on the estate, a knowing smile on his perfectly captured visage. Tony Wright playing his ukulele to a packed crowd in The Coach. Tony Wright leaving The Coach at 2 a.m. after a lock-in (little wave). Sunday, 9.46 a.m., Tony on his way to meet his probation officer, hunched, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. Tony and his probation officer entering the local greasy spoon.
‘Talk about cast iron,’ says Davy.
‘When was the last time The Coach had functioning CCTV, I mean with film in it?’ asks Harriet.
‘Never. Every nefarious deal on the estate is done in there,’ says Kim. ‘If they used CCTV, they’d have no customers.’
‘He wants us to know he’s there,’ says Harriet.
‘Which means?’ says Manon.
‘That a crime is going on elsewhere,’ says Harriet. They look at each other.
‘Wait, this crime or another crime? Someone’s kidnapping Edith Hind for him while he plays the ukulele?’ says Manon, frowning.
‘Rrrrrargh,’ says Harriet, pulling at her hair roots. ‘Why is he messing with my head? I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. Bring him in.’
‘You showing us you’ve got a face for radio, Tony?’ asks Harriet, standing over him in interview room two, her knuckles on the table. ‘All that smouldering eye contact for the camera?’
‘Now, I’m feelin’ a lot o’ negative energy coming off of you, DI Harper. I’m sensing you’re really pissed off because my alibi stacks up,’ says Tony, smiling at her like an indulgent parent. ‘Did I just ruin yer Friday, did I?’
‘What’s going on, Tony?’
‘Look, you people arrest me every time I chuff,’ says Tony, reasonably enough. ‘So these days, I walk where the cameras can see me, that way there’s no confusion. I got fucked off w’ havin’ ma arse hauled in here and bein’ shouted at fir stuff I did nae do. This is how I stop it – smile for the camera! Say cheese, Tony! S’no biggie.’
‘Do you know what happened to Edith Hind?’ Harriet demands.
Tony leans forward, his forearms on the desk. He is looking at them over the top of his glasses. Manon avoids his gaze, focusing on his dagger tattoo, the point of its blade ending at his wrist, and for some reason she wishes Davy was in the room with them.
Tony says, very low, ‘Youse two want tae watch yourselves, ye ken? ’Cos youse know, an’ I know, you dinnae have grounds tae arrest me. So unless youse want a whole lot o’ trouble – an’ I’m sayin’ this for yer own good – youse need tae back the fuck off.’ He leans back again, friendlier now. ‘Now, is there anythin’ else youse lovely lassies want tae talk about?’
A Week Later
Friday
Miriam
‘Muuum?’
The call drifts up the stairs to where she lies fully-clothed on the bed, followed by stomping.
‘Mum?’ more gingerly at the door, and there is Rollo’s darling face. Reminding her she is still a mother.
‘Mum,’ he says, coming to sit on the side of the bed. She smiles at him, that preposterous haircut he’s brought back with him from Buenos Aires – a slant upwards from the parting like a wedge of cheese. ‘Side quiff,’ he’d told her, smoothing it upwards with a palm.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he says now. ‘Cup of tea?’ He has a hand on her shoulder. What would she do without Rollo?
‘What are you wearing?’ she says to him fondly, her voice tired – woolly like the thick shadows in the room. She hasn’t slept more than two hours at a stretch in the twelve days since Edith went missing.
He looks down. ‘This?’ Purple cardigan with shocking pink trim, buttoned up over a white shirt and beige jeans which taper tightly to the ankle. Winkle-pickers. ‘I told you, Mum, I’ve got a look.’