turned it over. On the back, two smiley cartoon faces carefully drawn in blue pentel.
‘That belongs to Gareth. Where on earth did you get it?’
‘It came from a good friend of mine. Marie Mackenzie. She gave Gareth and Rachel a lift to the station a couple of days ago. Gareth left it in her car.’
‘Mackenzie?’ The name had rung a bell. ‘Next door to the Aults, you mean? The house with the pool?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say he’s a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK then. I suppose you’d better come in.’
Winter stepped into the cool of the house. Beyond the gleaming expanse of parquet flooring in the hall lay the living room. England were batting on the big wall-mounted plasma screen and Winter watched as the batsman stroked the ball towards the distant boundary. More applause.
‘You must be Mr Hughes.’ Winter glanced across at him.
‘That’s me.’ He was pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘Gareth’s dad.’
He picked up the iPod, staring at the faces again, then turned round. He had his son’s complexion, his son’s freckles, though his pale skin was blotched with alcohol.
‘This has been a nightmare. I’m sorry to be blunt but we’ve pretty much had it with the press people. You know something? They never leave you alone. TV are the worst. Think they own the bloody world.’
They’d had crews down from London, he said. They’d camped out in the road, put up the satellite dishes, then phoned through on their mobiles, pleading for an interview. At first he’d told them to bugger off, wanted nothing to do with them, but then his wife had pointed out the nuisance to the neighbours. Give them what they want, she’d said. And then they’ll leave us all in peace.
‘And did they?’
‘Yes. But then more arrived, press people as well. No bloody manners, any of them, and no bloody imagination either. Just the same old question. How did we feel? How do you bloody think we feel?’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘I kid you not, total nightmare.’
Winter sympathised. He’d had dealings with the media himself, often. Tact wasn’t their middle name.
‘ Tact? ’ The word triggered a fresh outburst. ‘These people wouldn’t know the meaning of the bloody word. All they want is grief. It’s not even news. Just some poor bloody woman sobbing her heart out.’
‘That would be me … ?’
Neither Winter nor Hughes had heard her come down the stairs. She stood barefoot on the carpet. She was wearing a silk dressing gown and her hair was wet from the shower. She looked vague, Winter thought, a stranger in her own house.
‘Mrs Hughes?’
‘Yes.’
Winter apologised again for the intrusion and said he was sorry about Gareth. He’d come to return the iPod and offer condolences from the Mackenzies. Mr Mackenzie, he said, had been the one grown-up to try and do something about the madness next door. He’d got injured in the process, quite badly injured, but at least he’d had a go.
‘I didn’t know that.’ Her voice was low, emptied of all passion. ‘I thought the police … .’
‘They intervened later. By then it was too late.’
‘I see.’
She asked Winter to sit down. She wanted to know more. Her husband had turned away, once more refilling his glass and then staring up at the cricket. Grief, thought Winter, walls you off. He’d seen it countless times.
‘Tell me about the party.’ She settled in the armchair across from the sofa. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Winter obliged. A conversation with Bazza had given him a picture of the state of the Aults’ place and the rest wasn’t hard to make up. An invasion of kids from the other side of the tracks. Too much booze. Too many drugs. Things get out of hand. The script, he said, writes itself.
‘Except that two young people died.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Not died, Helen. They got themselves killed. There’s a difference.’ It was Hughes. He was still watching the Test match. The way he put it sparked
‘That belongs to Gareth. Where on earth did you get it?’
‘It came from a good friend of mine. Marie Mackenzie. She gave Gareth and Rachel a lift to the station a couple of days ago. Gareth left it in her car.’
‘Mackenzie?’ The name had rung a bell. ‘Next door to the Aults, you mean? The house with the pool?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say he’s a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK then. I suppose you’d better come in.’
Winter stepped into the cool of the house. Beyond the gleaming expanse of parquet flooring in the hall lay the living room. England were batting on the big wall-mounted plasma screen and Winter watched as the batsman stroked the ball towards the distant boundary. More applause.
‘You must be Mr Hughes.’ Winter glanced across at him.
‘That’s me.’ He was pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘Gareth’s dad.’
He picked up the iPod, staring at the faces again, then turned round. He had his son’s complexion, his son’s freckles, though his pale skin was blotched with alcohol.
‘This has been a nightmare. I’m sorry to be blunt but we’ve pretty much had it with the press people. You know something? They never leave you alone. TV are the worst. Think they own the bloody world.’
They’d had crews down from London, he said. They’d camped out in the road, put up the satellite dishes, then phoned through on their mobiles, pleading for an interview. At first he’d told them to bugger off, wanted nothing to do with them, but then his wife had pointed out the nuisance to the neighbours. Give them what they want, she’d said. And then they’ll leave us all in peace.
‘And did they?’
‘Yes. But then more arrived, press people as well. No bloody manners, any of them, and no bloody imagination either. Just the same old question. How did we feel? How do you bloody think we feel?’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘I kid you not, total nightmare.’
Winter sympathised. He’d had dealings with the media himself, often. Tact wasn’t their middle name.
‘ Tact? ’ The word triggered a fresh outburst. ‘These people wouldn’t know the meaning of the bloody word. All they want is grief. It’s not even news. Just some poor bloody woman sobbing her heart out.’
‘That would be me … ?’
Neither Winter nor Hughes had heard her come down the stairs. She stood barefoot on the carpet. She was wearing a silk dressing gown and her hair was wet from the shower. She looked vague, Winter thought, a stranger in her own house.
‘Mrs Hughes?’
‘Yes.’
Winter apologised again for the intrusion and said he was sorry about Gareth. He’d come to return the iPod and offer condolences from the Mackenzies. Mr Mackenzie, he said, had been the one grown-up to try and do something about the madness next door. He’d got injured in the process, quite badly injured, but at least he’d had a go.
‘I didn’t know that.’ Her voice was low, emptied of all passion. ‘I thought the police … .’
‘They intervened later. By then it was too late.’
‘I see.’
She asked Winter to sit down. She wanted to know more. Her husband had turned away, once more refilling his glass and then staring up at the cricket. Grief, thought Winter, walls you off. He’d seen it countless times.
‘Tell me about the party.’ She settled in the armchair across from the sofa. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Winter obliged. A conversation with Bazza had given him a picture of the state of the Aults’ place and the rest wasn’t hard to make up. An invasion of kids from the other side of the tracks. Too much booze. Too many drugs. Things get out of hand. The script, he said, writes itself.
‘Except that two young people died.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Not died, Helen. They got themselves killed. There’s a difference.’ It was Hughes. He was still watching the Test match. The way he put it sparked
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