by Simon Brett
“I do know that. Gaby said they got the man who did it.”
“But that’s all she said?”
“Afraid so. Sometimes I think I’m very insensitive, Mum.”
He would never know how much that carelessly dropped ‘Mum’ meant to her. “I think I know Gaby, and I think I know how she’ll react to things, and then I do something crass like that – mentioning this murder that she’d only told me about in confidence.”
“Don’t worry. Nobody knows anything about their partner when they get married. Finding out about each other is both one of the great pleasures – and one of the great pains – of marriage.”
Stephen looked at her. She knew he wanted to ask whether she’d found that when she’d been married to his father, but fortunately Stephen’s recent awareness of his own occasional insensitivity stopped the words from coming out.
“Hm.” Carole reached across to pick up his plate. “I’ve made a treacle tart for pudding.”
“Ooh, my favourite.” Stephen sounded about five.
His mother paused for a moment in her clearing. “It must be horrible for Gaby – feeling that someone’s targeting her, that someone has an unhealthy interest in her.”
“Yes. She was trying to sound bouncy this morning on the phone, but it’s clearly got to her.”
“And you’ve absolutely no idea what the reason could be? Who the intruder could be?”
“No.” Stephen was silent, again weighing up how much he should tell. Again, he came down on the side of further revelation. “Look, I may as well tell you this, because you’re going to find out sooner or later. I don’t know whether it’s got anything to do with the burglary, but whenever anything odd happens in Gaby’s family – ”
“By ‘odd’ you mean ‘criminal’?”
“Possibly. The fact is that her brother – Phil – well, he’s been in trouble with the police a few times.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Nothing major. Petty theft. Stealing cars. I think he has a bit of a drug habit.” Stephen blushed again. “I feel guilty saying this, but Gaby did say I should. She said better you know a bit about Phil before you actually meet him.”
“I see. Have you met him?”
“Yes, and he’s a perfectly nice lad. A bit brash, maybe, and he looks a bit of a thug, but he’s amiable enough. The story is that since he’s got the warehouse job in Hoddesdon, he’s a changed character, back on the straight and narrow, but…well, he does have this history.”
Suddenly Stephen looked very vulnerable, a sight Carole had not seen since he was a small boy. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“Involving you in this. It’s Gaby I’m marrying, not her family.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Stephen. It’s not a problem. Gaby’s adorable. She’s absolutely right for you. And all families have their secrets and black sheep and what have you. I mean, Howard and Marie probably think I’m rather odd.”
“Hm…No, I’m sure they don’t.”
Carole wouldn’t have minded if he’d come in a bit quicker with that reassurance.
“So…Gaby has a brother who’s occasionally been on the wrong side of the law. That’s not her fault, I’m sure,” Carole went on, her confidence more for Stephen’s benefit than because she felt it, “that I’ll get on fine with Phil. On the other hand, though – why on earth would he have wanted to break into his sister’s flat?”
“I’ve no idea. I should think it’s extremely unlikely that he’s got anything to do with the break-in. It’s just, as I say, in the Martin family, whenever something happens that’s odd…”
“Or criminal?”
“Mm. Phil is the first suspect.”
“Which might explain why Gaby is unwilling for the police to come and inspect her flat?”
“Yes, Mum. I think it might.”
Carole had only momentary qualms about sharing with Jude what Stephen had told her. As soon as his BMW disappeared down the road, she was round at Woodside Cottage. Only after she had rung the doorbell did she remember that Jude had a guest.
But, to Carole’s relief, there was no sign of Gita when Jude ushered her into the cluttered sitting room.
“Fancy a glass of wine? I’ve got some open in the fridge.”
“Well, I did actually have some with Stephen at lunchtime.”
“All the more reason. Come on, it’s Sunday,” said Jude as she disappeared into the kitchen.
When they were both set up with a glass of white wine, Carole announced, “What I’m saying is in confidence, but I think I should tell you, because it may be useful background – you know, if Gaby does come and see you…”
“What?” Jude was bemused, and about to say that of course Gaby had already been to see her, when she remembered the girl’s stricture about not telling Carole. So she changed her tone and asked, “About her back, you mean?”
Carole nodded. “You’ve often said that bad backs are caused by tension.”
“Frequently, yes.”
“So I thought it might be useful for you to know what’s making Gaby tense.”
Jude had her own theories about this, but she waited to hear what Carole had to say.
“The fact is, there’s no problem between her and Stephen, which I must say is a relief. But there are things in her family which may be upsetting her.”
“Ah.” Jude wondered if she was about to hear more details of what had happened round the time of the Martins’ marriage, the ‘things’ which Gaby didn’t want brought ‘back to life’, which ‘should have been long forgotten’.
She was disappointed. “Gaby’s brother apparently is a bit of a delinquent.”
How characteristic of Carole to use that slightly dated word. “He’s called Phil – short for Philip, I assume. Got a police record, that kind of thing. Only for minor offences, but all the same – I think Gaby could be worried that Phil might do something to disrupt the wedding.”
“What kind of thing?”
“I don’t know.”
Jude took a sip of her wine, thinking again about Gaby’s words when she had been lying on the couch. “Did Stephen say anything about the Martins’ past? Was there anything unusual, you know, round the time they got married?”
“I don’t think so, no. Well, apart from the murder.”
Jude’s brown eyes widened. “Apart from the murder’? That was rather casually said. What on earth do you mean?”
Carole brought her neighbour up to date with the little information she had received from her son on the subject. “But it wasn’t anything to do with their family. Just the victim was a school friend of Marie’s. They got the man who did it, anyway.”
“And he wasn’t a family member?”
“No, I’m sure Stephen would have told me if that were the case. But whether or not this ancient murder has anything to do with Gaby’s unease, I’ve no idea. As is so often the case, we have insufficient information.”
Jude was torn. She felt tempted to share the tiny bit more information that she did have – the fact that Gaby had expressed anxiety about ‘things’ being brought back to life. But there were two strong reasons why she couldn’t. The first was that she had been treating Gaby and, though Jude was not a conventional practitioner, there still existed a rule of confidentiality between patient and healer. The second, even more compelling, reason was that Gaby had expressly asked her not to tell Carole about their consultation. With exasperation, Jude asked herself how she managed to get into such situations. Her instinct in life was always to tell the complete truth, and whenever she was persuaded by someone to go against that instinct – even for the best of motives – trouble ensued.
Still, she’d given Gaby her word. She couldn’t break that confidence.
Further conversation about the causes of the girl’s distress was interrupted by the arrival of Gita from upstairs, where she had just woken up. Instantly, Jude could see her neighbour tightening up with
jealousy. After some brittle chat about very little, Carole finished her drink and announced that she must ‘be getting on’.
Seeing her out, Jude reflected, not for the first time, that Carole was not the easiest person in the world with whom to sustain a friendship.
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Eight
Carole Seddon had long since stopped pretending that she hadn’t got prejudices. Prejudices were unavoidable for a woman in her fifties, brought up in the middle of the English middle-class, and one of her biggest was geographical. Almost as big as the divide amongst Londoners between ‘north of the river’ and ‘south of the river’ was Carole’s attitude, from ‘south of London’, towards places and people ‘north of London’. She had been brought up and lived her working life in the outer suburbs south of the metropolis, and her ambitions had always been directed towards the English Channel. Living in Fethering, therefore, seemed entirely right and appropriate. And, though ‘some very nice people’ came from and lived in the North of England, they were always bound to be ‘rather different’ from people from the South.
In this geographical hierarchy, Essex occupied a unique position. Proximity to London might be thought to make it a special case, but not to Carole’s way of thinking. Though she would never admit it if asked, her image of the county was a lifelong compilation of media stereotypes. She imagined it to be full of semi-retired East End gangsters, larcenous travellers, overpaid uncouth footballers and their wives, who, like most of the other female denizens, were blondes of voracious sexuality and minimal perception. She thought the only bathroom styles available in the county were onyx and gold, the only garden accessories were windmills and wishing wells, the only newspaper read was the Sun, and no vowel was ever properly pronounced. And Epping Forest existed only as a place to put murder victims in shallow graves.
There was not the slightest danger of reality softening the outline of any of these images, because Carole Seddon had never been to Essex.
But as her immaculate Renault approached the outskirts of Harlow, she saw nothing to change her ingrained perception. The fact that she had driven through the Dartford Tunnel to reach her destination served only to emphasize her feeling of being in an alien land.
Maybe when the ‘new town’ had first been created – the construction started in 1947 – Harlow had had some glamour. Maybe its tightly contained centre, its cement colonnades of shops, had then been state of the art, and the envy of more traditional towns. But, in common with many other examples of post-war building, Harlow had not aged well. Though some developments of that period survived to find a renaissance as ‘retro-chic’, the hopes of that ever happening to Harlow were so small as to be beneath statistical significance.
Perhaps the hotel Carole had chosen to stay in afterthe engagement party reflected her determination not to find any glamour in Essex. Outside the immediate environs of Harlow itself, there was more comfortable accommodation on offer, and she couldn’t pretend to be unaware of the fact, because Stephen and Gaby had booked into a very luxurious hotel converted from an Elizabethan mansion. But Carole had opted for a room in the identikit glassy rectangle of an international chain.
She felt a grim satisfaction as she drove into the car park, from which cement walkways led to the cement monolith itself. The hotel was one you could imagine someone checking into when contemplating suicide; if they hadn’t arrived with suicidal thoughts, they would certainly have them by the time they left.
She looked forward to returning to Fethering as soon as possible the next morning. Carole Seddon didn’t like being off home base. There was no practical difficulty about being away – Jude was going to feed and walk Gulliver – but Carole didn’t like sleeping anywhere other than her own bed at High Tor.
She had no idea where her ex-husband was staying. When Carole had last spoken to Stephen, his father had not yet booked anywhere. Characteristically, David had been late in committing himself to a decision. Equally characteristically, he hadn’t phoned her back, as promised. Carole had contemplated ringing him again before their inevitable meeting at the engagement party, but she had put it off, comforting herself with the argument that it really was his turn to ring her.
Yet somehow she wasn’t surprised, as she walked through the anonymous automatic doors of the hotel, to see a man standing at the anonymous reception, giving his details to the anonymous blue-suited girl behind the counter.
“Yes, the name is…erm…Seddon. David Seddon. I have a single room booked for just the one night.”
“Of course, Mr Seddon,” said the receptionist in perfect received pronunciation, confounding at least one of Carole’s preconceptions.
He hadn’t seen her yet. Carole cleared her throat as she took up a position behind him. He didn’t react. “Excuse me…” she began.
“Won’t be a moment, madam,” said the beautifully spoken girl. “Just dealing with this gentleman.”
Still David didn’t turn. He would always studiedly avoid confrontation or potential unpleasantness.
“Yes, but this gentleman was actually my husband,” Carole found herself saying.
He did turn at that. They stood awkwardly facing each other. Compounding the discomfort, the receptionist asked innocently, “Oh, so will you be wanting a double room then?”
“No,” said David.
“No,” said Carole, with equal promptness, and then added tartly, “I said ‘was’. He’s my ex-husband.”
“Ah.” The girl’s eyes moved discreetly down to her computer keyboard.
Carole tried to think how many years had passed since she and David had seen each other. At least five, probably longer. What she was now confronted with was a middle-aged man slightly below her own height, the dominant feature of whose face was a pair of black heavy-rimmed glasses. His hair, the crown of which had been brown when they last met, was now uniformly white, and he’d had it cut short and spiky, which gave a slightly raffish air, totally at odds with his nondescript beige suit. David Seddon looked what he was, a minor civil servant in retirement.
But Carole had enough detachment to know that, as he looked at her, the same thought was probably crossing his mind. She felt she looked drab and ordinary, an increasingly neurotic middle-aged woman; a minor civil servant in retirement.
Neither of them could think what to say, but the receptionist prevented total silence. “There’s your key, Mr Seddon. Do you want any help with your bags?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Just got this little wheelie one.”
“Splendid. Well, I hope you enjoy your stay, Mr Seddon. And now…Mrs Seddon, is it?”
“Yes. Carole Seddon.”
David hovered. To go straight to his room without saying anything would have been downright rude, but he couldn’t think of anything appropriate to the circumstances.
“Maybe,” Carole suggested, to ease the awkwardness, “we could meet for a cup of tea – or a drink – you know, once we’ve got settled into our rooms?”
“Yes…erm…good idea. I’m sure they must have a bar here somewhere.”
“The Avalon Bar, just to the left of the lifts,” the receptionist supplied helpfully.
“Thank you so much. Well, look, Carole, I’ll see you in…erm…half an hour, say?”
“That sounds fine, David.”
“And if you need to…erm…contact me – ” he fingered his keycard nervously “ – I’m in room number six one three.”
“Would it help if I were to see if I can put you in a room near Mr Seddon, Mrs Seddon?”
“No, it wouldn’t, thank you very much,” replied Carole, with perhaps a little too much vigour. After all, the girl had only been trying to help.
And yet, after David had gone up in the lift, while the girl was taking down her details, Carole found herself reacting strangely to his words. There had been a time in their marriage when arriving at a new hotel had had a definite aphrodisiac effect on them. The thought of anything like that now was of cou
rse ridiculous, and yet Carole found the memory both disturbing and faintly titillating.
The Avalon Bar was a good place for the person contemplating suicide to have that final, nerve-bracing drink. There was nothing in there to make him change his mind. Its decor, pastel and anodyne, was reminiscent of an inadequately endowed private hospital. The only atmosphere was provided by ambient music, in which standards by the Beatles, Abba and Stevie Wonder were filleted and garnished with swooping strings.
It was about half past five when Carole arrived in the bar. David was not yet there – no surprise. He had always been a strange mixture of meticulous planner and erratic timekeeper. Carole felt a seething within her, familiar from the many other bars and restaurants in which she had sat waiting for her husband.
At that time there wasn’t much business in the Avalon Bar. Three over-large and over-loud businessmen had just emerged from a day’s conference and were downing lagers. A young mother’s sour face tried to blackmail her husband into hurrying down his pint so that she could get their grizzling toddler to bed. A man who shouldn’t have been with a younger woman tried to look as if they had all the time in the world to finish their drinks before rushing off to the room he’d booked.
The anonymous blue-suited young man behind the bar took Carole’s order. She didn’t feel like tea or coffee, resisted the lure of the white wine she really wanted because she was pacing herself for the engagement party, and so ended up with a mineral water. Even that failed to sparkle much in the Avalon Bar.
David came in after she had been sitting for about five minutes. As ever, just late enough to be infuriating. She had rather hoped he might have brought something to change into for the party, but no, he was still in the beige suit, to which he had added an inappropriately bright, flowered tie. Carole was shocked how immediately and instinctively critical thoughts came to her mind in David’s presence, but then that attitude had had a long time to build up. They’d shared the mounting resentment of the years when their marriage was supposedly ‘all right’, then the petulant spats of the divorcing process. Since that time Carole had only avoided feelings of irritation by keeping an iron control over her thoughts and never letting them stray towards her ex-husband. She shouldn’t have been surprised that seeing him again opened up the floodgates of annoyance.
