The Torso in the Town

by Simon Brett

  Carole’s mind was racing. She had to talk to Jude. She had to tell Jude about the connections that were forming in her mind.

  She contrived to leave the vicarage quickly, but without overt rudeness.

  Philip Trigwell stood wringing his hands in the doorway as he saw her out. ‘I’m sorry. I probably haven’t been much use to you. I often wonder if I’m much use to anyone . . . you know, my parishioners or . . .’ He sighed. ‘Life’s not easy, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Carole Seddon, as she started towards the parked Renault. ‘But having a strong faith must help, mustn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Rev Trigwell agreed wistfully. ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘ . . . which must mean that Roddy Hargreaves couldn’t have killed his wife,’ Carole concluded triumphantly. ‘He was in France at the time. The Rev Trigwell saw him on to the ferry and then met Virginia afterwards.’

  Jude was uncharacteristically cautious. ‘Ye-es. We’d have to check the actual timing of her disappearance.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We know we’re talking about late February three years ago. Friday the twentieth, to be precise, as James told us. Roddy talked about three or four days of his “lost weekend” in France and said that when he got back, presumably round Tuesday the twenty-fourth, Virginia had gone.’

  ‘But if he’d killed her, he would have said that, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘What, so you’re suggesting the trip to France was just to provide an alibi?’ Carole demanded scornfully. ‘That’s why he involved the Rev Trigwell? Roddy caught the next ferry back to England, murdered his wife and pretended he’d been in France all the time? And I suppose he was only pretending to be drunk out of his skull, was he?’

  ‘That’s what a premeditating murderer would do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But I can’t see Roddy Hargreaves in the role of premeditating murderer. He wasn’t sufficiently organized to do anything like that. He was a complete mess.’

  ‘That’s how he presented himself, yes. But that could have been an elaborate double bluff.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! Why’re you being so pussy-footed?’

  This outburst brought a slow smile across Jude’s rather beautiful face. ‘Just playing devil’s advocate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Somebody’s got to. Normally I can rely on you to take the job.’

  ‘Oh, Jude . . . !’

  Jude continued to smile in the silence. After some moments of resistance, Carole couldn’t help smiling too. Jude had that effect on people. As they sat there that Monday morning over coffee in the cluttered sitting room of Woodside Cottage, Carole felt great gratitude for the fact that they’d met. Not that she’d ever put the feeling into words. Carole Seddon had a deep distaste for hearts worn on sleeves.

  ‘Don’t worry. If it’s any comfort to you, I think you’re right.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘But we do need to find out more about the weekend when Roddy claimed to be away.’

  ‘Was away.’

  ‘Probably. We still need to know more about it.’

  Carole conceded grumpily that this was true. She’d wanted a bigger reaction to what she’d found out from the Rev Trigwell. And though she knew that Jude was only teasing her, Carole Seddon had never enjoyed being teased.

  ‘All right then. Who do we talk to? Who might know about what Roddy was up to?’

  ‘James Lister. We keep coming back to him. Regular drinking companion of Roddy’s.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ A new thought struck Carole. ‘I wonder when James retired . . .’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Well, we know he was a butcher – much as Fiona would like to keep that fact a secret. And he’s now . . . what? When we did the Town Walk, he said he was over seventy. So I wonder when he retired.’

  ‘Why’s it relevant, Carole?’

  ‘Simply because Philip Trigwell said he’d met Virginia Hargreaves in the grocer’s. Presumably he meant the one that Debbie Carlton’s parents used to run . . . which is now an antique shop.’

  Jude caught on. ‘And which was next door to the butcher’s, formerly John Lister & Sons, now an estate agent’s.’

  ‘Exactly. And I was wondering whether James Lister was still plying his trade on the weekend Virginia Hargreaves disappeared.’

  ‘Carole, you aren’t making a connection between butchery and dismemberment, are you?’

  A shrug. ‘Well, it’s a thought. I’d imagine removing arms and legs is an easier job for a professional than an amateur.’

  Jude’s brow wrinkled as she assessed the idea. She pushed a flop of blonde hair off her forehead. ‘I have the same problem with James in the role of murderer as I do with Roddy. Or at least with Virginia in the role of victim. Now, if Fiona had been dismembered . . . well, yes, that would make sense.’

  Carole grinned grimly. ‘Anyway, it’s all worthy of investigation. I’m sure we’ll find out that Roddy Hargreaves couldn’t possibly have killed his wife.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Jude tapped her chin as she remembered something. ‘And there’s another person we should talk to as well.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The old bloke Roddy bought the boatyard from.’

  ‘Do we know who that is?’

  ‘Ted Crisp knows.’

  Carole froze at the name. Her carapace of reserve was immediately rebuilt around her. The thawing of the last couple of weeks was undone in an instant.

  ‘I thought I might go down and have lunch at the Crown and Anchor. I don’t suppose—’

  ‘No, Jude!’

  Her primary purpose could not be fulfilled, because Ted Crisp wasn’t on duty at the Crown and Anchor. It hadn’t occurred to Jude before, because he seemed to be a fixture in the pub, but of course the landlord must have days off. There was a pattern even to lives as apparently disorganized as Ted Crisp’s.

  But her trip wasn’t wasted. As she approached, Jude had seen a familiar figure getting out of a BMW he had just parked and going into the pub. Alan Burnethorpe, dressed in his uniform collarless black shirt and black jeans. She remembered Ted telling her that the architect who’d worked with Roddy Hargreaves was an occasional visitor to the Crown and Anchor.

  Jude had checked her pace and wandered down to the sea front for a moment to give Alan Burnethorpe time to buy a drink. She felt it would be easier to approach him once he was comfortably ensconced in the bar. He could certainly be a useful source of background information about his former client.

  When she finally entered the Crown and Anchor, Jude couldn’t see any sign of the architect. Only when she had ordered a white wine and a Tuna Bake from the unfamiliar girl who seemed to be in sole charge did she spot him, tucked away in a booth, deep in conversation with a heavily built man in a smart sports jacket and oblong glasses. She picked up her drink and sidled casually into the booth next to them.

  ‘ . . . overnight flight to Miami,’ the one she didn’t know was saying, ‘which will be as uncomfortable as ever.’

  ‘Surely you go First Class or Club?’ said Alan Burnethorpe.

  ‘No. It doesn’t take that long.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can afford it.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘You always were a bloody cheapskate, Francis.’

  This ready identification was extremely convenient from Jude’s point of view. She felt confident that the large man was Debbie Carlton’s ex-husband, and she settled down with interest to hear what he had to say. Making her presence known to Alan Burnethorpe was an option she would decide whether or not to exercise later.

  ‘I’m not a cheapskate. I’m just not going to give Debbie the satisfaction.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. What satisfaction?’

  ‘The satisfaction of making me shell out for a First Class ticket.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me, Francis. What is this?’

  ‘Look, I do
n’t want to be over here. I want to be in Florida with Jonelle. I only came back because the police were getting suspicious of me.’

  ‘About Virginia’s body?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a silence between the two men. Then Francis Carlton asked, ‘Haven’t been in touch with you, have they?’

  ‘The police? No. I don’t think anyone knows there’s any connection between her and either of us.’

  ‘I don’t know whether the police knew anything about me and Virginia. If they did, they kept quiet about it when they questioned me. Mind you, of course, at that stage the body hadn’t been positively identified as hers.’

  ‘No,’ Alan Burnethorpe agreed. There was another awkward silence. ‘I should think we’re all right now, anyway.’

  ‘Roddy Hargreaves’s suicide puts a lid on the investigation?’

  ‘I’d have thought so. That must be what the police are thinking. Certainly what all the snoopers and harpies of Fedborough are thinking.’

  ‘So Roddy’s really done us a favour,’ said Francis Carlton slowly.

  ‘Ensured that there’ll be no more investigation of Virginia’s past . . . Yes, I hope so. We’re both off the hook.’

  ‘And I really don’t think anyone in Fedborough has a clue that either of us had affairs with Virginia. So far as they’re concerned, she was a nice aristocratic lady who only went up to London to sit on charity committees.’

  ‘As opposed to sitting on . . .’ The architect, maybe aware of its tastelessness, thought better of continuing the line. ‘Anyway, it was all a long time ago. I broke up with Virginia when I met Joke.’

  ‘And with her and me it was just sex, really. Very good sex, it has to be said. I don’t need to tell you about that four-poster bed she had in London, with the design of vines climbing up the pillars and—’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Alan Burnethorpe curtly.

  ‘OK. I don’t actually think many people in Fedborough even knew Virginia had a flat in London. And nobody knew what she used it for.’ Francis chuckled harshly. ‘There was a marked lack of curiosity about anything she did away from Fedborough. Which is good news for both of us. We can congratulate ourselves on having got away with it, having evaded the beady eyes of the town.’ Francis Carlton let out an audible shudder. ‘God, I’d forgotten how claustrophobic that environment can be.’

  ‘It’s not so bad.’ Instinctively, Alan came to the defence of his home town.

  ‘You may not find it so, but I do. Maybe it’s all right for you “Chubs”. You’re just like Debbie, she seems to enjoy all that shopkeepers’ gossip. Well, it’s not for me. I tell you, Alan, I wouldn’t dare be having this conversation with you anywhere in Fedborough.’

  ‘Maybe not, but we’re fine here. This place is very quiet. I use it quite a bit.’

  ‘Like you used to use your office on the houseboat? Bring a few little friends here, do you?’ Francis nudged.

  ‘Francis, I’ve got Joke. I’m a happily married man.’

  ‘But the way he said it prompted a laugh of male complicity.

  ‘Yes, of course. How is married life?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Francis Carlton picked up on the automatic nature of the reply. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well . . . It’s all a bit familiar. I’ve got two small children. I had two small children before, when I was married to Karen. I don’t find the new set much more interesting than I found the first lot.’

  ‘And how’s married sex?’

  ‘Fine. Fine . . . so long as I get the occasional outside diversion.’

  Another masculine chuckle from Francis. ‘You don’t change, do you, Alan?’

  ‘What about you? You working your way through the busty cheerleaders of Florida?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not. I don’t expect you to believe this – because the idea’s so alien to your nature – but, since I married Jonelle, I’ve been entirely faithful to her.’

  ‘Oh. Well, congratulations.’ It was Alan’s turn for a male-bonding chuckle. ‘Still, if she’s pregnant, that’s going to have an effect on your sex-life. You’ll have to develop some outside interests to get you through that.’

  ‘No.’ Francis Carlton spoke with a new seriousness. ‘The pregnancy is what makes me certain that I’ll stay faithful to Jonelle. That really means a lot to me. Maybe if Debbie had been able to have children I might have stayed with her . . .’ He quickly dismissed the idea. ‘Anyway, Jonelle and me is for keeps.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t think you’ll ever make love to another woman?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘God, Francis, you’re no fun any more.’

  ‘Two Steak and Kidneys.’ The girl from behind the bar brought over the men’s food. Jude made a silent prayer that the service to her might be slow. She was getting more information than she had dared imagine, and didn’t want the arrival of her Tuna Bake to draw attention to her presence.

  There were sounds of the men salting and peppering and starting in on their food, and Jude wondered for a moment if she had heard all she was going to get, but fortunately Alan Burnethorpe picked up the conversation again. ‘Do you know, Joke never had a clue that Virginia got up to naughties in London. And she was living and working in Pelling House all that time.’

  ‘Yes, but that was in Fedborough, Alan. Like I said, all the fine people of Fedborough cared about was Virginia’s title. And they spent so much time feeling sorry for her because of Roddy’s drunken behaviour, it never occurred to them she might have failings of her own.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘I mean, apart from being good in bed – and I won’t take that away from her, she was extremely good in bed – Virginia wasn’t really a very nice person. She wasn’t on speaking terms with any of the rest of her family, I know that for a fact.’

  ‘Might not have been her fault. Perhaps they were even more unpleasant than she was.’

  ‘All right, that’s possible. But presumably, if any of her family had taken any interest in her, she couldn’t have vanished off the face of the earth so effectively for the last three and a half years.’

  ‘No.’ Alan Burnethorpe was thoughtful.

  Francis Carlton chuckled. ‘Good thing for you Joke didn’t know about Virginia’s little London habits. Otherwise she might have found out that you shared them for a while. That wouldn’t have been conducive to domestic harmony, would it?’

  ‘You’re right. She’d have taken a pretty dim view of me having screwed her employer. Or anyone, come to that. Joke has a distinctly old-fashioned attitude to adultery,’ Alan concluded gloomily, as though his wife’s scrupulousness was a cross with which he had been unfairly burdened.

  ‘So when did you last see Virginia?’ asked Francis.

  ‘About a week before she disappeared – or perhaps now we should be saying “before Roddy topped her”. We had an assignation in London for that Friday, and I remember I was getting a bit uptight about it, because things had started up with Joke, and I knew soon I was going to have to tell Virginia it was all off. Anyway, she saved me the trouble.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She phoned me at the office and said she was ill. Couldn’t make our meeting in her flat on the Friday.’

  ‘Did she say what was wrong with her?’

  ‘No. Quite honestly, I didn’t care. Just breathed a big sigh of relief. Then the next week all Fedborough was talking about the fact that Virginia’d upped sticks and walked out on Roddy. So I was off the hook.’

  ‘Very convenient,’ said Francis Carlton.

  ‘Yes,’ Alan Burnethorpe agreed, without intonation.

  There was a bit of steak-and-kidney-chomping before he went on, ‘You still haven’t explained what you meant by “not giving Debbie the satisfaction” of you buying a First Class ticket.’

  ‘Ah, no. Well, I told you I only came over because the police were making some nasty insinuations on the phone . . .’

  ‘What kind of insinuati
ons . . . assuming at that stage they didn’t know the body was Virginia’s?’

  ‘Just asking how often I went down to the cellar in Pelling House, that kind of thing. It wasn’t actually what they were asking that got me worried; it was the tone in which they were asking it. I decided the only way to kind of clear my name was to come and talk to them face to face. And when I got here, I discovered why they were so suspicious of me.’

  ‘Had they had an anonymous tip-off or something?’

  ‘Exactly that. A letter, saying if they wanted to know how the torso got into the cellar at Pelling House, they should ask Francis Carlton.’

  There was a silence. Jude held her breath. She noticed with annoyance that the barmaid had disappeared into the pub kitchen. Oh dear, she didn’t want this moment ruined by the arrival of a Tuna Bake.

  ‘Did you see the actual letter?’

  ‘No. But obviously it came from Debbie.’

  ‘What makes you say that? Debbie’s not vicious. I think she’s got a rather forgiving nature.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Alan. You’ve been divorced. You know divorce isn’t a great recipe for sympathy between a man and a woman. Debbie may appear to you to be “forgiving”, but she hates me. She hates the fact that I’ve got Jonelle. She hates the fact that I’m happy. She’d do anything to shaft me. And making me have to shell out the cost of an airline ticket from Miami—’

  ‘Even just an economy one.’

  Francis ignored the interruption. ‘That’d give her a great charge. Pathetic, but it’s the only way she could think of to get at me, and take me away from Jonelle, even just for a few days. I bet Debbie had the idea the minute she heard about the discovery of the torso.’

  ‘Did she sound gleeful when she heard you were going to come over?’

  ‘She’s too subtle to do that. Besides, if she had started crowing, I might have smelt a rat. No, it was very simple. Debbie just wanted to cause me maximum inconvenience – and do something that’d upset Jonelle too. Petty revenge, that’s all.’ He coloured at the recollection. ‘God, I bawled her out when the police told me about the anonymous letter.’