Philip quailed in the blast of his wife’s anger, which she was articulating loudly enough that people were turning to stare at them.
‘I simply don’t understand it,’ Patricia was saying. ‘Why are there so few of them here?’
‘I don’t know, darling. Perhaps something more important has come up. You know how the news cycle works these days, it changes so quickly.’
Instantly he knew he’d said the wrong thing.
‘What do you know about the press?’ She couldn’t have been more dismissive if she’d tried.
‘Dad’s right though,’ George chipped in. ‘You did all you could to get as many journalists as possible here, but something else must’ve got their attention so let’s make the most of the ones who are, eh?’
With a wink at Philip, George steered his mum towards the small group of reporters waiting by the entrance to Gatwick’s North Terminal. The group was made up of a lone reporter from the Press Association, who said he’d be sending his copy to all the nationals and snapped pictures of the family on his phone, a stringer for the Evening Standard and a crew from ITV’s London Tonight news programme who couldn’t say for certain that the footage would run.
Philip was grateful to his son for the intervention. If anyone could placate Patricia, it was George. He was as unflappable as she was, but had a natural charm his mother sorely lacked. While she rubbed everyone up the wrong way, George would having them eating out of his palm.
He gripped the handle of the luggage trolley bearing their cases as he watched the two people he loved more than anything in the world tell the press why they wouldn’t rest until Katy’s killer was found. A curly blond forelock flopped across George’s forehead as he spoke and not for the first time Philip’s mind registered how dissimilar they were in looks as well as temperament: his son was as golden as he was dark. As though sensing his father watching him, George glanced over his shoulder and flashed Philip a smile of reassurance. We’ll get through this, Dad, I promise. It was the same promise he’d been making for the past ten years.
‘Mr Pope?’
The unexpected interruption made him jump. He looked round to see a smartly dressed young woman standing beside him. She had dark-blonde hair and striking green-blue eyes, and she was holding a warrant card.
‘I’m sorry to startle you. I wanted to introduce myself: I’m DC Maggie Neville, your new family liaison officer.’ She offered him a handshake to go with her smile. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
This must be Katinka’s replacement, thought Philip. He had been sorry to see her go and certainly didn’t think her ‘crime’ warranted it, although he had yet to confess to Patricia that it was he who suggested she take her shoes and socks off while they were sitting in the garden chatting. He’d read somewhere that you absorb Vitamin D best through your feet because the skin is thinner there, and thought the officer could probably do with a top-up after being cooped up in an office all day. If he’d known Patricia would take such umbrage at seeing the young woman’s toes he’d never have suggested it.
He returned Maggie’s handshake.
‘It’s nice to make your acquaintance. I was very sorry to have missed you when you came round the other day.’
‘Likewise. Hopefully there will be more opportunity to chat while we’re in Saros.’
Philip felt his mood plunge at the mention of their destination. His hatred of the place had worsened the closer their departure. It was like this every year, but still Patricia insisted they make the pilgrimage. She said she felt closer to Katy in Saros, which Philip found baffling. For him it was at home, in the rooms she’d eaten, slept and sat in, in the hallway she’d walked through, on the stairs she’d climbed every day. He didn’t understand how his wife could most keenly feel Katy’s presence in the place where she was murdered.
His anguish must’ve shown in his expression, because Maggie asked if he was okay, her own face a picture of concern. He nodded and tried to brighten his tone.
‘Philip, please. We ought to be on first-name terms, don’t you think?’
‘That’s entirely up to you. I think your wife would prefer a more formal address though,’ said Maggie.
She had a twinkle in her eye that Philip liked.
‘Call her whatever she wants, but I’m Philip,’ he said firmly.
‘I’m sure you’re already familiar with what my job involves because of DC Kasia, but if you have any questions, please do ask.’
‘I have one,’ a voice suddenly boomed behind them.
It was George, his interview wrapped. Philip glanced over to see that Patricia was still going. Onlookers surrounded her and the journalists now, clucking sympathetically as it dawned on them who she was and why she was at the airport. He looked away, unable to bear the sorrow their faces were projecting. He carried too much inside him to dwell on theirs.
‘If you’re coming to Majorca for a week,’ George continued, his gaze fixed on Maggie, ‘where’s your suitcase?’