by Simon Brett
“So it’s the Dalrymples?”
The flicker of Donal Geraghty’s eyelids told Jude she’d hit a bull’s eye, but of course he denied the assumption. “I think you’re narrowing down your suspects too much. There’s going to be more than one couple having extramarital flings in a place like Fethering. Surely you know that.”
“I do. But, till you told me, I didn’t know it was an extramarital fling we were talking about.”
His face registered annoyance at his carelessness. “Ah, well now, I didn’t say…”
But backtracking was hopeless. Emboldened by the information she had procured, Jude pressed her advantage. “And might this extramarital fling have something to do with Walter Fleet’s murder?”
He smiled enigmatically. “I don’t think the change of circumstances there are going to stop me from getting my little meal ticket.”
“What change of circumstances are you talking about?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Teasing out his narrative, he took another long pull at his glass of Jameson’s and smacked his lips elaborately before continuing. “The case is over.”
“How do you mean?”
“The police know who killed Walter Fleet.”
“How?”
“Because they’ve had a confession.”
Jude looked appalled. “Not that poor girl?”
“Poor girl? I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a man who’s confessed.”
“Who?” asked Carole.
“Alec Potton. Now do you want this tip for the next race or don’t you?”
He gave them a horse’s name. Chateau Dego. Jude put twenty pounds on it at sixteen to one. Carole desisted, not wishing to risk the precious three pounds fifty she had won on Becktrout. As a result, she missed out on the three hundred and twenty pounds that Jude won when Chateau Dego romped home by a mile.
But neither the winning punter nor the nonpunter showed much emotion. They reacted numbly, as in a daze. Carole and Jude were both preoccupied by the news they had heard about Alec Potton.
29
CAROLE SEDDON WAS normally a very organised shopper. She planned ahead, making elaborate lists before her weekly forays to Sainsbury’s. (There was also a Tesco’s near Fethering, but, in spite of the huge rebranding and massive success of the company, Carole couldn’t stop thinking of Tesco’s as slightly common.) Surprise and shame were therefore her dominant emotions when, after her day’s racing at Fontwell, she got back to High Tor to find she had run out of dog food. She had been somewhat preoccupied with Walter Fleet’s murder and worries about Stephen and Gaby; she just hadn’t noticed the dwindling stocks of Gulliver’s favourite Pedigree Chum.
There was nothing else in the larder she could fob him off with. And there was no way she could endure an entire evening of reproachful looks from a hungry dog. So there was nothing for it but to put her coat on again and take a brisk walk down to Allinstore.
Even though she avoided using the local supermarket whenever possible, Carole still knew exactly where the pet food section was, and quickly filled her basket with enough tins—and no more—to see Gulliver through till her next scheduled Sainsbury’s run. She wasn’t planning to pay more Allinstore prices than she had to.
At that time of the evening, between the postschool-run rush and the returning commuters’ flurry, the store was fairly empty, and Carole couldn’t have been more surprised to see, sitting behind one of the tills, Hilary Potton. If her ex-husband’s arrest and the possible effect of that on Imogen had been enough to make her take time off work, why on earth wasn’t she staying at home after the news of his confession? Maybe Carole was about to find out.
She took her purchases up to the counter and received a beam of recognition. For a moment this surprised her, but then she remembered that she had only had Hilary’s shouting at Jude reported to her. Carole herself was in the clear; so far as Hilary Potton was concerned, she had nothing to do with the treacherous Jude.
“Glad to see you back,” she said uncontroversially. “Are things a bit more settled at home?”
“Well, I suppose they are in the sense that I now know where I am.”
“Oh?” As usual in her encounters with Hilary, Carole reckoned only the smallest of prompts would be required.
Her surmise proved correct. “Look, I may as well tell you this, Carole, because soon enough it’ll be all over Fethering—not to mention the known world. The fact is that Alec, my ex-husband, has now been shown up as the monster he always was.”
“Well, I heard he’d been taken in for questioning by the police.”
“Things have moved on from there. It seems the police had very good reasons for questioning him. Alec has confessed.”
“What?”
“He’s admitted that he stabbed Walter Fleet.”
“Good heavens. That must be terrible for you.”
“Well, yes, at one level, it is. I mean, I always knew Alec had a lot of personality defects, but it never occurred to me that he’d do anything on this scale. It’s terrible and”—Hilary Potton shuddered—“I also feel awful about the potential danger I’ve been in from him all these years—not to mention the threat he posed to Imogen.”
“But how has poor Imogen taken the news? She was upset enough, I seem to recall, about her father being taken in for questioning. This latest business must be appalling for her—you know, when her friends at school find out…”
“Yes, I thought of that. I’ve talked to the school, and they agree that it would be good for her to have a break till things settle down. I drove her up to stay with my mother in Northampton this morning.”
“That sounds very sensible.”
“Well, I thought it was for the best.”
“I don’t know what to say, Hilary. I’m just so sorry you’re being put through this dreadful trauma.”
“Yes, it’s no fun, I can tell you. But at least, now I know the kind of man Alec really is—presumably always was—I no longer feel even the tiniest twinge of guilt about the fact that I’m divorcing him.”
The words were spoken with unmistakable satisfaction. Carole wondered whether something comparable would have helped her. If she had known David to be the perpetrator of some atrocious crime, would she have felt less of a failure for getting divorced? Would the public opprobrium have made her feel she was justified in getting rid of such a monster? She rather feared it wouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference. In her case, the guilt would still have been there.
One of the first commuter trains must have just arrived at the station, because Allinstore suddenly had an influx of customers, the first of whom was now approaching the checkout.
“Oh, I’d better take for these.” Hilary Potton ran the tins of Pedigree Chum past the barcode reader. “For that lovely dog of yours I saw in the café—now what was his name?”
“Gulliver.”
“That’s right.”
Carole handed across the exact change. “But listen, Hilary, if there’s anything I can do to help out, do just give me a call, won’t you?”
“That’s so sweet of you, Carole. But I’ll be strong—I’ll have to be. I’ll manage.”
This was said with considerable pluck—even nobility. And Carole realised that Hilary Potton was enjoying every minute of her new status. Not only was she getting rid of a hated husband, she was also being given the chance to play the central role in her favourite drama—the one about her own life.
“Jude, my back’s just seized up completely.”
“How completely, Sonia? Can you move?”
“Not really. I’m stranded on the sofa in the sitting room. It’s agony just trying to lie down, but even worse when I try to stand up.”
“I’ll come round straightaway. Will I be able to get in?”
“Yes, the front door’s unlocked.”
Not even someone as naturally elegant as Sonia Dalrymple could look good immobilised with back pain. Under the skilful makeup her face wa
s grey and the darkened circles round her eyes showed through. Her blond hair was lank, and her eyes were red with weeping—though whether with tears caused by pain, frustration or something else Jude did not know.
She had brought an emergency kit of oils and microwaveable heat pads with her, but started first with just her hands. “Where? Small of the back, is it? Just at the bottom of the spine?”
Nodding was too painful, but Sonia managed to confirm that that was indeed where the epicentre of her pain lay.
Jude concentrated and brought her hands down gently onto the affected area. Through Sonia’s clothes, she could feel the rigid knots of tension that had tied up her movement. Jude focused and let the hot energy flow through her hands, melting the seized-up joints, easing the rigid muscles. Within about five minutes, her client had managed to sit up.
“Just relax. I’ll give you a full massage in a moment. First, let that relaxation go all the way through your body. All right, how is that?”
“Better. Better,” Sonia murmured.
“There’s something new, isn’t there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something new that’s upsetting you. Since you came to see me at Woodside Cottage.”
Sonia Dalrymple’s ravaged face turned to Jude, and the tears began again.
“Is Nicky coming home?”
A little nod. “He rang this afternoon. He wasn’t meant to be back till Sunday, but he’s getting an early flight tomorrow. Which reminds me, I must ring the police.”
“What?”
“Oh, they said they wanted to talk to Nicky when he was next home. Presumably just to check if he knows anything about the stuff they found in the hayloft, which of course he doesn’t.” Panic crossed Sonia Dalrymple’s face. “And he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“It’s not just that that’s got you into this state, is it, Sonia? You’re used to Nicky coming home unexpectedly.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I am. I never really get used to it, though.”
“It still frightens you?”
A little wordless nod. Sonia Dalrymple was too crippled, too abject to maintain her usual front of omnicompetence. She couldn’t pretend about the state of her marriage to Jude.
“Do you think you’d be happier apart from him?” Jude asked gently.
The nod that greeted this was shamefaced. “But he’d never accept that. Nicky would never accept anything that made him look stupid, that made him look in the wrong.”
“Yes, but if your health is suffering like this…There’s got to come a point when you put your well-being before his.”
“There are the girls to think of too.”
“Teenage girls are remarkably resilient.”
“But then there’s”—Sonia Dalrymple gestured hopelessly around her luxury home—“all this.”
“It would be possible to get out. It can be done. People have done it.”
“I know, I know. I can see all that stuff when I’m on my own here. I build myself up, psych myself up, work out all the bold sensible things I’m going to say, but then, when Nicky comes home…”
“You’re afraid of him?”
Sonia nodded. “It’s like he—his very presence—drains all the confidence out of me. All my will goes. I’m just…feeble…”
“Is it the violence that makes you so afraid?” Jude waited, fully expecting a denial of the charge. Sonia had never admitted before that Nicky sometimes hit her.
But no, the allegation was allowed to stand. Maybe it was her reduced state, or Jude’s calming presence, but Sonia did not even attempt to defend her husband. She almost smiled through her tears as she replied, “No, it’s not the violence, really. When he hits me, it’s almost a relief. That I can cope with; that I understand. Painful, horrible, yes, but in a way straightforward. It’s the way he undermines me verbally that really hurts. That’s what melts away my personality to nothing.”
Jude had a sudden thought. She would be taking a risk saying what she was about to say, but she thought the risk was worth it. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps ‘tell’ isn’t the right word. ‘Confess’ might be nearer the mark.”
Sonia’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement, which was a welcome sign. The more she thought about things other than her own predicament, the more her contorted body would relax.
“Right, Sonia. What I have to admit is an act of trespass.”
“Really?”
“Here. Into your premises.”
“You broke in?”
“Effectively, yes.” She decided not to admit that her trespass had been accompanied. No need for Carole’s name to be mentioned. “A few days ago, while you were staying at Yeomansdyke. I didn’t break into the house, just the stables. And that was hardly ‘breaking in’—everything was unlocked. But I went into the hayloft.”
“And you found the stuff up there? It was you who alerted the police to what they’d find?”
The idea angered Sonia, and Jude was glad to be able to allay that suspicion. “No. In fact we—I only missed the police by minutes. They arrived here just after I’d left. Someone must have tipped them off, but it certainly wasn’t me.”
“But why did you come here? What made you think you’d find anything in the hayloft?”
“Donal.” Sonia trembled at the name. “Some things Donal had told me made me suspect that he might have pitched camp in your stables.”
“What did he say?” she whispered.
“Nothing directly. I just pieced things together.”
“And you knew you were going to find the bloodstained clothes?” Sonia was almost weeping now. “Alec’s bloodstained clothes?”
“No. All I expected to find was evidence that Donal had set up base in the stables. The bloodstained clothes were a total surprise—well, ‘shock’ is probably a better word.”
“But Donal didn’t tell you anything else, did he?” Fear had reduced Sonia’s voice to a thin whisper.
“He implied to me that he was preparing to blackmail somebody—a married couple, or one member of a married couple.”
“Oh God. He didn’t tell you what it was about, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
The answer seemed to remove a great strain from Sonia Dalrymple. Her body untwitched, like a baby going to sleep, as the tension flowed out of her. If there had been any doubt in Jude’s mind as to who was the target of Donal’s planned blackmail, it had now been dispelled.
But finding out what he wanted to blackmail Sonia about would have to wait. Jude had another question of greater priority. “You know that, as well as the bloody clothes in the hayloft, the police also found a bloodstained knife.”
Sonia nodded. “Presumably the murder weapon?”
Jude didn’t disillusion her. “Did you see it?”
“No. They described it to me. A Sabatier kitchen knife, I gather.”
“Do you have such a knife in your kitchen?”
“Well, yes, of course. Everyone does, don’t they? The police checked through the stuff we’ve got, but I don’t suppose—” Sonia stopped short and looked at Jude curiously. “You’re not suggesting that the murderer stole the knife from our kitchen?”
Jude shrugged. No need at that time to remind Sonia that the police had in their possession the knife that killed Walter Fleet. And that it had been a bot knife, not a kitchen knife. “It’s possible,” she replied.
She sat on the sofa beside her client. “You were talking about Nicky coming home unexpectedly…”
“What?” Sonia looked confused by the sudden change of subject. “Oh, yes.”
“So he’s coming home tomorrow?”
“Mm.”
“And the last time he was home was, well, just before you went into Yeomansdyke?”
“Yes.”
“And the time before that?”
“Well, he was home for a weekend at…No.” Sonia corrected herself as the memory came back to he
r. He did come home for…well, really just a few nights at the beginning of February.”
“Would that stay have included the night that Walter Fleet was murdered?”
“Well, it…I’m not sure. I…” A strange, new expression came into Sonia Dalrymple’s face. “Yes. Yes, it was late that afternoon that he came home.”
30
“MY NAME’S NICKY Dalrymple. We met when you came to visit my wife.”
“That’s right. And you gave me that very generous cheque for the N.S.P.C.C.”
“Yes,” he said shortly. “I believe you also do…some kind of therapy with Sonia.”
“I do.” When she heard that kind of scepticism in a voice, Jude never bothered with further explanations.
“I’m phoning because…I wonder if we could meet?”
Jude bit back the teasing instinct to ask if he too was in search of therapy. She didn’t think Nicky Dalrymple was the kind of man who would understand the concept of a joke. “Yes, of course.”
“It’s in connection with…that appalling business up at Long Bamber Stables. I’ve been giving the police some information they required, and I think there are a few points you might be able to help me with.”
“Really?”
“Well, I am right—you were the one who actually found Walter Fleet’s body, weren’t you?”
“Yes, that was me.”
“I wonder then, when would it be convenient for us to meet?”
“As soon as you like.”
“Shall I come to your place?”
Some instinct for caution stopped Jude from saying yes. “No, everything’s a terrible mess here. Could we meet at”—the unlikeliest of venues came into her mind—“the Seaview Café?”
“Mother, I want to come down and see you.”
“What?”
“With Gaby, of course.”
“Oh?”
“There’s something we need to tell you.”
“Something you can’t tell me over the phone?”
