“Er, I’m not sure. Might have done but we don’t really mix with the locals much—we’re only here at weekends usually and then we often have visitors staying.”
“He used to come into the restaurant bar a lot at one time. But he hasn’t been in for a while.”
“Right.”
“Yes, well . . . when are you off?”
“Imminently,” Kevin said, standing and slamming the boot shut. “We should’ve been back in London yesterday but there were things I had to sort out.”
* * *
—
“That Kevin Scott-Pennington is weird,” Saul said as he unpacked the shopping. “I think he was kissing his car. Mechanophilia, it’s called. I googled it on the way home. What are you doing?”
Toby slammed his phone down on the table. “Nothing. Just looking up an e-mail from the meat supplier.”
“Why? Is there a problem?”
“No. Everything’s absolutely fine. Stop fussing!”
But it obviously wasn’t. Toby’s face looked waxy and there was a burst blood vessel in his right eye.
“Did you not sleep?” Saul said. “I heard you walking about downstairs in the early hours again. You look terrible.”
“Thanks. That’s made me feel so much better. I’m a bit tired, that’s all. Lots going on.”
“Look, I’ve got everything under control. I’m already packed. I’ve bought you a new shirt—did I show you? And Barry is all sorted for running the restaurant—he’s arriving Friday. He’s looking forward to his fortnight by the sea and I’m so excited— Oh, I should have told Kevin about our trip to LA. I told him about Charlie Perry, though.”
Toby whirled round and almost fell off his seat.
“What? What did you tell him?”
“Look out.” Saul steadied the back of the chair. “That he’s the body they found.”
Toby’s face went blank. “Right,” he said. “Awful thing to happen.”
“That’s exactly what Kevin said.”
Thirty-two
TUESDAY, AUGUST 27, 2019
Elise
Elise was rehearsing what she needed to say in her statement about finding Charlie when the text reminder of her appointment with the oncology consultant pinged on her phone.
She pushed her lunch away and sat staring at the tabletop.
A ring at the door made her jump up. Ronnie’s early, she thought, grateful for the distraction. “Finally found my bell, then?” She smiled as she opened the door.
But it was a woman with sunglasses on her head.
“Er, hello,” Elise said. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I hope so.” She smiled warmly. “I’m not having much luck.”
“Right. So . . . ?”
“I’m Kiki Nunn—from the Sussex Today website.”
“Ah . . . not sure I have anything to say to a reporter.”
“But, Ms. King”—and Elise noted she hadn’t mentioned her rank. Does she know I’m a cop?—“I’m told you might have known Mr. Perry. And I understand you’re a police officer. . . .”
Right.
“I am but I’m on sick leave.”
“Yes, I heard that. Sorry, but I promise not to take more than five minutes of your time. There’s a lot of mad gossip and speculation circulating and I just want to tell the readers a few facts.”
“What sort of speculation?”
“That Mr. Perry was beaten to death. And ‘immigrants’？”—she raked the air with quote marks—“are responsible. Horrible stuff.”
“Why are people saying that? Do they have any evidence?”
“？’Course not. People just do. This sort of garbage always fills an information void. You only have to look at social media—people with an ax to grind or a conspiracy theory just stick it out there often enough, and suddenly it’s true. That’s why I’m trying to put some of it to bed. I’d love some real info to put up on the website.”
It made sense but Elise hesitated.
“I don’t know anything about Sussex Today,” she said, fumbling with her phone to look it up.
When the site popped up, Ebbing was all over it. There was a photo of Tracy Cook and another of her weeping mother with the headline “Teen Comes Out of Coma After Festival Ecstasy OD.” A small picture of fire engines at the Old Vicarage and a big blurry one of Charlie Perry, under “Pensioner Dead in Cellar.” But no celeb-shaming photos.