When she entered the house that evening, Angela draped herself against the kitchen door jamb watching Patrick in silence as he pottered around the kitchen putting food onto two trays. After a few moments he turned to look at her with a quizzical expression.
“The pose is definitely seductive but the smile isn’t nearly vampish enough,” he said, coming over and kissing her. “Fortunately, I find you sexy anyway.”
“I wasn’t trying to be seductive. I was trying to create suspense in the atmosphere.”
“Consider it done. Why am I now suspended?”
Angela laughed. “Stanway is going to the Crown Prosecution Service tomorrow, so we’re waiting to see if we get permission to make an arrest.”
“Oh my! You have been busy. Here, take yours. You can tell me all about it over dinner.” They settled themselves and Patrick switched on the television.
“Right,” began Angela. “Oh, hold on a minute, Pads,” she said as a picture of Joanna Clarke flashed onto the screen. “Let’s just see what’s happening here.” They heard the voice of an announcer.
At the Wimbledon Championships, British player Joanna Clarke retired during her fourth-round game today because of ill-health. It was a sad end to what had been a very promising revival for Joanna, who has been playing very well here. In an interview later she spoke very positively about the situation and made a most unexpected announcement.
“Oh?” said Patrick, looking across at Angela as the scene changed to show Joanna sitting in front of the familiar backdrop used for the post-match interviews. The interviewer must just have asked her how she was feeling because the clip cut straight to Joanna’s answer.
“Oh, I’m feeling much better now, thank you,” she said. “I’m just grateful that I was fit enough to get this far. It’s shown me what I can really do and I’m hopeful of my chances when I come back into the game next year.” The interviewer was clearly nonplussed by this answer and suggested that it sounded as if she was planning to have some sort of injury time out.
Joanna gave a gentle laugh. “Sort of, I suppose. The thing is, I’m expecting a baby.”
There was a pause from the other side of the microphone and it was obvious that the interviewer was stumped for a response.
“Er, did you say… er… you’re pregnant?”
Joanna smiled and nodded. She looked supremely confident and at ease. “I know that it’s not the best of situations, being a single mum, and I wouldn’t really have chosen that, but there it is. I’m in a very fortunate position because my family are being really supportive. The baby is due January and after that I’ll be practising very hard to get my game back.”
“Er, er… congratulations,” said the interviewer, rallying. “I’m sure you’re aware of the rumours that you and Stewart have split up?”
“Oh yes, we have,” replied Joanna. “Obviously, if Stewart wants to have a relationship with his child I won’t deny him access but it’s true that we’re no longer together. He’s with Candy now and I wish them every happiness.” Joanna didn’t say “And as far as I’m concerned she’s welcome to him” but she didn’t have to. It was etched into every line of her delighted expression.
“Does Stewart already know he’s to be a father?” asked the interviewer.
“Oh yes,” said Joanna and smiled pleasantly.
Even sitting in their living room, Angela and Patrick could hear the unasked questions buzzing around inside the interviewer’s head and, in spite of Joanna’s definitive statement, were able to make very educated guesses about the headlines the following morning. Joanna Clarke Expecting Stewart’s Baby – Is This Why They Split? or Joanna Carrying Stewart’s Child – Will They Now Get Back Together? Even, Joanna Pregnant by Stewart – Did Candy Know?
Sitting in front of the camera, Joanna seemed blithely unconcerned with what anybody might be thinking. She looked radiant as she smiled and thanked the interviewer. The scene cut to the anchorwoman in the studio who expressed her amazement at the news, segued smoothly through the mention of one or two famous female tennis players who had done well after becoming mothers, and continued into the round-up of that day’s play.
“My goodness,” said Patrick. He looked across at Angela. “Never thought she’d break the news in bombshell fashion like that.”
“Yes, that’s toughing it out and no mistake. In a way I’m sorry she’s out of the tournament, though. She’s been having a very smooth pregnancy so far but it must have caught up with her today.”
“Hmm,” Patrick nodded. “Louise was like that when she was carrying Maddie; felt as fit as a flea and loaded with energy… OK,” he said after a few moments, once the scene had switched to a mixed doubles match. “I’ve been aware of all the frenetic activity. Your team have been haring off collecting samples and checking fingerprints and it all sounds very like you’re moving to a conclusion.”
“Absolutely. That’s why Stanway’s pushing. He’s going for a face-to-face interview at the CPS hoping to get the application fast-tracked so that we can wrap it up before the end of the tournament.”
“You mean we might get to watch the finals with this behind us?”
“I sincerely hope so, Paddy.”
“You have done well,” he said.
Angela demurred. “We all have, Pads; I’m part of a team.”
“Indeed you are and as a team, from what I can see, you’ve all pulled together and worked well, but…”
“But?”
“How many of your team would have stepped outside the police officer role to sit and have a sandwich and coffee with that elderly lady, er…?”
“Gracie.”
“That’s it, Gracie. Being prepared to engage with that woman has reaped huge dividends with you on this case.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“And then there’s young Philip Turnbull. Most interesting information from him.”
“Ah, yeah, but I knew something was bothering him and it was going to nag at me until I got to the bottom of it.”
“My point exactly, Inspector Costello; you step outside the box. I didn’t hear about Jim or Rick being aware that something was bothering him.”
“Well, to be fair,” countered Angela, “I’d probably sent them off to do something else.”
“Point taken, but I’ve always noticed that you’ve got a particular interest in the human angle and that’s what’s paid off for you in this case. You know,” he said, drawing his fingers gently across her brow, “you’ve got a very talk-to-able face. I’ve thought that right from the first moment I met you.”
“Aw shucks,” smiled Angela. She leaned into him for a kiss.
“Yes, I still think you’ve done well,” he answered after a few moments. “And, of course, your main suspect was a little careless.”
“Aren’t they always, when it comes down to it?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “There’s invariably some small point they haven’t covered, and thank God for it. So now it’s a waiting game with the CPS.”
“Yeah, it could take a few days but that’s no bad thing. It will give us a chance to make sure we’ve got everything sewn up and all our paperwork’s in place.”
“And still keep your eyes peeled for anything you’ve missed on the way?”
“Oh yes, definitely that. The file remains open on every suspect.”
“Talking of suspects, have you seen the papers today? The press are going loopy about the first all-British quarter-final in years, and I must admit I’m looking forward to the spectacle tomorrow.”
Angela nodded. “I know what you mean. I’ve got very mixed feelings about that match. I just wish Philip could somehow get an injection of gumption or whatever it is that he needs to play on top of his game but I’m not holding my breath.”
“Are you going to the club to watch the match?”
“Oh yes. I’m definitely taking advantage of my position for that.”
Patrick grinned. “Good for you,” he said.
A different kind of atmosphere could be felt in the air at the club now, or so it seemed to Angela as she entered it the following day. On day one of the tournament every player could harbour a hope, however far-fetched, of walking away with the trophy. Today, most of the players had been knocked out. The expectations of the crowds had necessarily narrowed and were now focusing on the few who remained in the contest.
It was a rare treat for the home fans to have two British players still left in the draw at this stage, and the fans and the media were making the most of it. Angela found herself surrounded by the buzz that the match was stirring up. She encountered it constantly on the television, on the radio, in the press and on the lips of people around her. The fact that Stewart and Philip were playing against each other today tempered a little, but not much, the pleasurable anticipation that there would definitely be a Brit in the semi-finals.
For many it was a foregone conclusion that Stewart would prevail. Angela had seen the headline on the sports pages of a few newspapers already that morning: Stewart Sets Sights on Semi-Finals. It was an expectation that was probably shared by many around the court, Angela thought, and she couldn’t wonder at it.
They were already on court and warming up when she arrived. Using the police pass issued to her the previous week, she made her way to the court and managed to find somewhere to sit.
She found herself wondering how Stewart’s strategy against Philip worked. Surely it would look suspicious if Stewart won too easily. But then, she reflected, Philip’s game had only really developed within the past year or so, and they hadn’t played each other much in that time and not at all in any high-profile match. Angela wondered how aware the self-absorbed Stewart was of Philip’s improvement. In any case it was academic, she thought with sadness. Philip, in his own eyes, couldn’t afford to let himself win against Stewart.
Finally, play got under way. Stewart and Philip walked to opposite ends of the court as the excited noise from the spectators stilled to an expectant hush. The first few games went with serve, but the way they were played was a very clear marker as to the possible outcome. Stewart won his games easily, sending powerful serves across the net which generally went unreturned. In his own games, Philip struggled to hold himself together and his movement seemed, to Angela, somewhat stiff. There was a worried frown between his eyes and he gave off a general sense that it was all a huge effort.
In the fifth game, Stewart’s serve, he sent four of his trademark aces across the net to win it in easy points. He had a “business as usual” strut in his step as he walked back to his seat at the changeover. By contrast, Philip’s shoulders slumped and he hid himself under his towel. His head was still down and his expression grim as the umpire called time.
Philip served well in the next game and the two men got into a couple of very long rallies. The score went to deuce and then advantage a few times, the two players taking it in turns, it seemed, to have the upper hand. Finally, just as Philip was sprinting to get to a cross-court pass, he slipped and the ball landed on the line to the sound of a sympathetic “ooohhhh” from the crowd.
Poor bloke, thought Angela, watching Philip get up and brush himself down. He must think even God’s got it in for him now. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t put up much resistance in the next game and he very quickly lost the set after that.
Angela became aware of an almost palpable sense of disappointment rippling through the spectators. There couldn’t be a person present who wasn’t aware of the match history of these two men but the commentators, though their money had been on Stewart as the prospect of this meeting had become more and more likely, had spoken with optimism of Philip’s improved game and skill at returning. They had at least hoped he’d make a match of it before losing.
Angela began to feel a bit depressed. Philip remained under the cover of his towel whenever he sat down. The seat Angela had managed to wangle for herself wasn’t too far from the box in which the players’ teams sat and a sudden sound from that direction made her turn round just in time to see Tessa Riordan slipping into the seat beside Philip’s coach.
As Philip made his way out onto court again for the second set, Angela saw him look up at the players’ box. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and didn’t raise his eyes again as he made his way round to the service line. The next three games had just about every stroke in the tennis manual. Stewart’s superb serves were met by good quality returns.
But they fell just short of scintillating.
There were drop-shots, cross-court passes, forehand and backhand drives and a couple of stunning lobs. Philip demonstrated every stroke in his repertoire. But there was no fire in his belly and it wasn’t long before the score was three-nil to Stewart.
The sense of the crowd straining to encourage Philip, to egg him on to make a fight of it, was almost palpable. Angela watched him with a mixture of sorrow and frustration. She knew better than most that the real battle on court was being fought inside Philip’s head. It was equally clear that he was losing.
As play progressed, Angela became aware of another issue. She had the definite impression that Philip kept his eyes averted from the players’ box. She glanced up to see Tessa’s face fixed intently on Philip as if she were willing him to look up at her.
Finally, as Philip emerged from under his towel and came out for the fourth game, she prevailed. It seemed he could hold out no longer. He glanced up at his girlfriend and held her gaze for a moment, his face grim as he stepped up to the line.
Suddenly there was a change. Just a small one. Nobody who wasn’t watching Philip as closely as Angela would have noticed. She glanced quickly across at Tessa and caught an unmistakable surge of hope in her face. So she had noticed too. From her seat at the side of the court Angela leaned forward more intently.
Philip was just settling himself to receive serve when he held up his hand to indicate he wasn’t quite ready, and turned to the back of the court. It took a few seconds only; he bent down to adjust his trainer in some way, jumped up and gave a couple of skips as if to test it and turned round to face the court again.
Angela’s heart gave a small leap. Philip’s shoulders were back and his head was up. The impression of defeat had lessened. Go for it, Philip, thought Angela. She wondered what was going through Tessa’s mind right at that moment.
Stewart approached the line and prepared to serve. He was gearing up to send another ace to his opponent.
With a resounding crack, the ball left Stewart’s racquet and cannoned across the net in the direction of the “T”. Experience had taught him not to expect his serves back from Philip, so he had relaxed a little and had already begun to move towards the other side for his next serve when there was an involuntary gasp from every spectator in the place.
Stewart’s stunning serve had been gathered up onto Philip’s racquet and sent spinning back to him to land with an ineffectual little bounce at his feet. There came a collective “oooooh!” of admiration followed by applause as the crowd realized that this match could turn into a competition worth watching. Angela looked up to the players’ box just in time to see a huge beam of approval stretched across Tessa’s face, and both her thumbs sticking up towards the sky. Philip also glanced up at the players’ box and gave a huge smile, the first one Angela had seen from him that day and, if nothing else, she was certain of one thing. He had enjoyed that. He had relished doing what he had known for some time that he could do, and from the new set of his shoulders and the angle at which he now held his head there was to be no turning back, no matter what the consequences.
Philip Turnbull had served notice on Stewart Bickerstaff.