I’m not sure he was saying that exactly.’
‘What was he doing in there? I mean, when was the last time the super came in on an interview? And where is he for this departmental review he was so keen to have?’
Various colleagues have gathered around them for the briefing. Harriet is glancing furtively at them and she says, ‘Let’s talk about this later.’
They perch on desks or at their computers, Harriet and Davy at the front.
‘Right, Derry says we’re not getting the PM results till tomorrow, so let’s press on with other lines until forensics come in,’ says Harriet.
‘I did a bit of digging around at Dunlop & Finch,’ Colin says. ‘Head of the firm is one Markus van der Lupin, then beneath him are the two vice presidents, equally pegged as far as I can tell – Ross and this other chap, Giles Carruthers.’
Hariet nods, saying, ‘So let’s look closely at the structure there – any rivalries, fallings-out, that kind of thing. Very competitive, the City. Davy, you’d best head down there, interview Carruthers and the rest of the staff. Rest of you, priority is still our King’s Cross chap. Who is he, where’s he from and how can we collar him?’
Marie from reception has entered the room, and says, ‘The Ross parents have arrived. I’ve shown them into interview room one.’
‘Let’s not keep them waiting,’ Harriet says to Davy.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Davy says, ‘for your loss. This must be a difficult time.’
They nod, but don’t speak. Both are little; beady. Grey hair in a scribble above faces mottled with sunspots. They have cried, he can see that from the puffiness around their eyes, but he can see their reserve also, making them contain their grief in front of strangers. Not like some he’s done this kind of interview with. Some like to wail and holler as if volume proves how much they feel.
‘When did you last see your son?’ Davy asks.
‘Last Christmas,’ Mr Ross says.
Davy waits. They’re not the sort to elaborate. Rural people, Harriet said.
‘Right, so that’s nearly a year ago.’
‘He always said how busy he was,’ Mrs Ross says. ‘Said he’d like to come and see us more, but he couldn’t get away from work. We live out of the way. Not easy to get to. He was due to come this Christmas again.’
‘Did you know about the cruise?’ Davy asks.
They look at one another. Shake their heads.
‘He had purchased two tickets in your names for a cruise on the Crystal Serenity. Around the Caribbean. For two weeks in January.’
‘Ah, no,’ Mr Ross said, shaking his head sadly. They look down at their hands. After a pause, he continues, ‘It’s not our way. We’re not fancy people. We don’t like restaurants and cruises and all that kind of thing. Jonno was always buying us that kind of thing and—’
‘We didn’t want him to,’ Mrs Ross says.
Davy had looked up the Crystal Serenity online, its £17million refurb complete with retractable roof above the Trident Grill, its seahorse-shaped swimming pool and on-deck golf course, a seemingly endless roster of dining opportunities. Something about it had the ring of battery-chicken coop. He could picture himself pressing his face against the cabin glass and screaming to be let off. ‘Enough with the langoustine fricassee!’ He couldn’t picture these two, who seemed more the cheese-on-toast kind, browsing the on-board diamond emporiums.
Ross’s father sighs. ‘We’re not … comfortable in those situations. It sounds ungrateful now I say it.’
Mrs Ross says, ‘We felt he was always trying to impress us, to shower us with gifts and whatnot. We didn’t know how to say that he was enough in himself. We were so happy to have him.’ She doesn’t gasp or sob, but the tears leak from the edges of her eyes. Her quietness fells Davy. ‘You see, we thought we couldn’t have any children. We were married for twenty years and nothing at all happened. We were devastated by that but we’d come to terms with another sort of life. Then, when I was 42, Jonno came along, out of the blue.’
Davy nods, swallows.
‘But children are only on loan,’ Mrs Ross is saying. ‘You can’t keep them. We hoped he would have his own child one day, so that he might realise what we feel … to love someone not because of what they do but because they are. That they exist is wonderful, they don’t have to do much more to make you proud.’ Mr Ross takes her hand. She is quiet, thinking. Then she says, ‘But somehow – and we don’t know how this happened – it was as if the way we were, the sort of people we are, well … it wasn’t the way he was going to be. And all these gifts, all these luxury things, were his way of saying he wanted us to be different. Oh I’m not making any sense. I’m just trying to describe the place we were in, with Jonno.’
It is not Davy’s place to tell them about Solomon Bradshaw, much as he would like to comfort them with a grandchild they are not yet aware of. That’s Ellie’s job.
Instead, Davy says, ‘Jon-Oliver, as I’m sure you’re aware, was a rich man. He had moved a sum of money, rather a large sum of money, into a company registered offshore. Do you have any idea who the beneficiary of that company might be?’
Mr Ross is shaking his head. ‘I know he had a few bob, but I didn’t understand his work. I don’t understand about wealth management, couldn’t get to grips with what he did. I make furniture for a living. Tables mostly. I take pieces of wood, and I sand them and turn them and create joints, and when they’re made, someone pays me for them, and they take the table away. And that I can understand. I used to ask him again and again, but his work stayed a mystery to me.’
‘Oh God, you need wine,’ Manon says, pouring Sauvignon Blanc into a glass and handing it to Ellie, who’s sitting at the kitchen table pushing a balled tissue into a nostril. Her eyes are red, her lips cracked. She takes the glass gratefully. ‘Hang on,’ says Manon, making for the doorway, ‘right back …’
Out in the hall, she calls ‘Fly! Fly?’ up the stairs.
No response. She can hear the bath running, knows what they’ll be doing up there. Fly will be lying on his bed reading his latest Anthony Horowitz novel, imagining himself a teen spy, while Solly squats on the carpet constructing the same dinosaur puzzle he works at every night: repetition being a source of unalloyed joy for the 2-year-old.
‘Fly!’ she shouts, a notch louder and with more irritation.
She weighs up her exhaustion and desire to talk to Ellie versus the need to intervene. She very much doesn’t want to heave her bulk up those stairs but knows that Fly’s total immersion in his book means Sol could be drawing on the walls while the bath overflows. Her belly creaks, she yawns, thinks, fuck it. ‘Turn the tap off!’ she bellows, her parting shot as she returns to her sister, whose floodgates have re-opened.
These
