shook his head at once, acknowledging the weakness of his case. Maybe he should have dwelt on the D-Day weekend a bit longer and given Wilcox the chance to boast about the banquet he’d doubtless attended. What Clinton had said to him. What Hillary had worn. Whether or not she had good legs.
‘There’s no reason not to,’ he agreed. ‘None at all.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
Barnaby looked him in the eye, unblinking. He could hear someone laughing in the newsroom outside. ‘I don’t want to see her hurt,’ he said at last. ‘Believe me, it’s that simple.’
Wilcox shook his head. ‘Nothing’s that simple. Are we talking local politics here? Only you never struck me as—’
‘No,’ Barnaby said. ‘It’s nothing to do with local politics. I don’t care a shit about local politics.’
‘Then it must be personal.’ Wilcox stuck his thumbs inside his braces.
‘Yes.’
‘Very personal?’
‘That’s not a fair question.’
‘Fair question?’ Barnaby heard the braces twang. ‘You come in here and ask me to spike a story? And you’re talking fair question?’
‘Touché.’ Barnaby conceded the point, shamefaced. ‘
Mea culpa
.’
There was another long silence. The laughter had come to an end. Finally, Wilcox reached again for the paper, folded it up and positioned it on the desk so that Barnaby couldn’t miss the front page. An elderly veteran was saluting on a beach in Normandy. His bent figure cast a long shadow across the wet sand. Over the picture, the headline read
A DAY TO REMEMBER .
‘You’re right about knackered,’ Wilcox mused. ‘It’s been a bastard. Non-stop.’
‘But fascinating, I expect.’
‘Yeah,’ he concurred. ‘Pretty bloody special.’ He fingered the paper before looking up. ‘Didn’t make it to the Guildhall, then?’
‘No.’
‘Shame. History in the making. Unbelievable evening.’
The phone began to ring. Wilcox stared at it then got up, extending a hand. ‘Important call,’ he said, jerking his head at the phone. ‘David Montgomery. Monty’s son. We’re doing a big profile piece.’ He stepped round the desk, and patted Barnaby’s shoulder. ‘No promises, mate, but I’ll see what I can do.’
Charlie Epple was still packing his bag when he heard Liz at the front door. He went to the head of the spiral staircase, watching her come in. She’d been to Waitrose and she was carrying a heavy box of shopping. Charlie clattered down the stairs, relieved her of her load, and closed the door with his foot. He could see at once that she had been crying. Like Charlie, she’d been to the hospital. And, like Charlie, she’d found Jessie gone.
Liz went at once to the kettle, filled it and plugged it in, walling herself away behind the simplest domestic routines. Charlie pulled a stool towards him, perched on it and inspected the contents of the cardboard box. Someone ate a lot of tinned tomatoes.
Liz turned round and bent to the fridge for a carton of milk. ‘She loves pizza,’ she muttered, ‘or used to.’
Charlie nodded. Jessie had always been a favourite of his, a child so gentle, so ready to listen, so eager to please that she seemed to belong to another planet. Maybe that’s why she’d taken to hard drugs, he thought.
‘She’ll be back,’ he said aloud. ‘I know she will.’
‘You think so? You really think it’s as simple as that?’
‘Yep.’
Liz gazed at him, wanting to believe it. ‘It’s as if she’sdied,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s as if she’s dead and gone. She’s not the same any more. She’s different. She’s someone else. Jessie would never have done that. Not her. Not Jess.’
‘Are you blaming her?’
‘I’m blaming nobody. Except that bloody Haagen. Him and his wretched dog.’ Liz reached into the cardboard box for a packet of biscuits and tore angrily at the wrapping. She emptied them onto a plate and Charlie took one, trying to piece together in his mind the exact order of events.
‘There’s no reason not to,’ he agreed. ‘None at all.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
Barnaby looked him in the eye, unblinking. He could hear someone laughing in the newsroom outside. ‘I don’t want to see her hurt,’ he said at last. ‘Believe me, it’s that simple.’
Wilcox shook his head. ‘Nothing’s that simple. Are we talking local politics here? Only you never struck me as—’
‘No,’ Barnaby said. ‘It’s nothing to do with local politics. I don’t care a shit about local politics.’
‘Then it must be personal.’ Wilcox stuck his thumbs inside his braces.
‘Yes.’
‘Very personal?’
‘That’s not a fair question.’
‘Fair question?’ Barnaby heard the braces twang. ‘You come in here and ask me to spike a story? And you’re talking fair question?’
‘Touché.’ Barnaby conceded the point, shamefaced. ‘
Mea culpa
.’
There was another long silence. The laughter had come to an end. Finally, Wilcox reached again for the paper, folded it up and positioned it on the desk so that Barnaby couldn’t miss the front page. An elderly veteran was saluting on a beach in Normandy. His bent figure cast a long shadow across the wet sand. Over the picture, the headline read
A DAY TO REMEMBER .
‘You’re right about knackered,’ Wilcox mused. ‘It’s been a bastard. Non-stop.’
‘But fascinating, I expect.’
‘Yeah,’ he concurred. ‘Pretty bloody special.’ He fingered the paper before looking up. ‘Didn’t make it to the Guildhall, then?’
‘No.’
‘Shame. History in the making. Unbelievable evening.’
The phone began to ring. Wilcox stared at it then got up, extending a hand. ‘Important call,’ he said, jerking his head at the phone. ‘David Montgomery. Monty’s son. We’re doing a big profile piece.’ He stepped round the desk, and patted Barnaby’s shoulder. ‘No promises, mate, but I’ll see what I can do.’
Charlie Epple was still packing his bag when he heard Liz at the front door. He went to the head of the spiral staircase, watching her come in. She’d been to Waitrose and she was carrying a heavy box of shopping. Charlie clattered down the stairs, relieved her of her load, and closed the door with his foot. He could see at once that she had been crying. Like Charlie, she’d been to the hospital. And, like Charlie, she’d found Jessie gone.
Liz went at once to the kettle, filled it and plugged it in, walling herself away behind the simplest domestic routines. Charlie pulled a stool towards him, perched on it and inspected the contents of the cardboard box. Someone ate a lot of tinned tomatoes.
Liz turned round and bent to the fridge for a carton of milk. ‘She loves pizza,’ she muttered, ‘or used to.’
Charlie nodded. Jessie had always been a favourite of his, a child so gentle, so ready to listen, so eager to please that she seemed to belong to another planet. Maybe that’s why she’d taken to hard drugs, he thought.
‘She’ll be back,’ he said aloud. ‘I know she will.’
‘You think so? You really think it’s as simple as that?’
‘Yep.’
Liz gazed at him, wanting to believe it. ‘It’s as if she’sdied,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s as if she’s dead and gone. She’s not the same any more. She’s different. She’s someone else. Jessie would never have done that. Not her. Not Jess.’
‘Are you blaming her?’
‘I’m blaming nobody. Except that bloody Haagen. Him and his wretched dog.’ Liz reached into the cardboard box for a packet of biscuits and tore angrily at the wrapping. She emptied them onto a plate and Charlie took one, trying to piece together in his mind the exact order of events.
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