by Simon Brett
“But is he being supportive?”
“I gather Phil’s always been pretty useless when it comes to anything involving responsibility. Also I don’t think he and Marie ever really got on that well. He was closer to his father. No, he’s gone back to work.”
“In the warehouse in Hoddesdon.”
“Yes. Which is probably just as well. I don’t think Phil’s presence would do anything to decrease the tension in the flat.”
“No.”
“Robert’s been round a few times. He’s been a great source of strength for Marie, but he can’t spare much time. He seems to have a pretty busy life, with his duties as a magistrate and what have you. He’s also been very helpful dealing with the police.”
“In what way?”
“Well, being an ex-copper, he knows how they work. Sometimes he can give them information and save Marie the stress of another interview.”
“Hm. And you’re back at work, are you, Stephen?”
“Yes. I’m really frenetic at the moment.”
Doing what? Carole was tempted yet again to ask the question, but she realized she had left it far too late in their relationship.
“And Gaby?”
“She’s off for the foreseeable future. I think she’d give anything to get back to the agency, just to be able to get her mind round something else, but she’s afraid to leave Marie on her own. Which is why I was suggesting they should have a break somewhere. Just to get away from the flat, get away from Harlow.”
“Would the police be happy for them to do that?”
“I think it’d be all right. I’d have to clear it with the inspector in charge of the case – Inspector Pollard he’s called – but he seems to be a fairly reasonable guy. So long as he knew where they were, I don’t think he’d raise any objections.”
“So where are they thinking of going?”
“I thought down your way would be good.”
His words prompted instant panic in Carole. The thought of having people staying in High Tor, people she didn’t really know that well, people who were in a highly emotional state – it would be more than she could cope with. The carefully guarded borders of her life were under threat of invasion.
“Well, yes,” she flustered. “I’ve only got the one spare room, but if they didn’t mind sharing, I – ”
“No, I wasn’t suggesting they actually stay with you, just somewhere down in your direction.”
“Oh.” Carole hoped the monosyllable didn’t reveal too much of her relief.
“I mean, the only hotels I know are like Hopwicke Country House Hotel, which I think might be a bit dauntingly grand for Marie.”
“Well, there are lots of less flashy ones around. I’m sure I could sort something out for you.”
“If you could. As I say, I’m absolutely frenetic here.”
“Leave it with me. Somewhere quiet and comfortable.”
“Yes. With the emphasis on the ‘quiet’. Somewhere where no reporters would think of looking for them.”
“Right. And what – book them in for a week?”
“Something like that. Leave it open-ended.”
“All right, Stephen. It shall be done.”
“Bless you.”
“And from when?”
“Well, if I talk to Inspector Pollard today, and everything’s all right, then from tomorrow, I would think. Gaby’s got the BMW up in Harlow. She could drive her mum down.”
“I’ll arrange it. Can I ring you back at work?” It was something she had very rarely done.
“Trouble is, I’ve got end-to-end meetings all day. If you don’t mind just sorting it out with Gaby. I’ll give you her mobile number.” He reeled it off.
“Very impressive memory, Stephen.”
“I get that from you.” Carole was cheered by the thought. “Anyway, God knows I’ve keyed Gaby’s number in a few times. I wouldn’t be so fluent with my own.”
“No, I suppose you don’t often dial that.” Carole was as yet unfamiliar with the world of mobile phones. She kept thinking she should get one. But then again, she was so rarely away from High Tor, the landline there was probably adequate for her minimal needs for communication.
“Gaby can’t remember her own number for love nor money. It’s the first entry in her address book. Mind you, most numbers you put in the phone’s memory these days, so it doesn’t much matter whether you remember them or not.”
“It matters to me. I try to remember every phone number I’ve ever been told. It’s a point of honour not to have to consult my address book.” It was also, for Carole, rather like doing The Times crossword every day, a way of holding at bay the insidious advances of Alzheimer’s.
“That, if I may say so, Mother, is entirely characteristic of you.” But, though unarguably a criticism, he said it with affection. “Anyway, I’ll get on to Inspector Pollard, and if there’s any problem about them leaving Harlow, I’ll let you know within the next hour.”
“All right.”
“Thank you, Mum.” He didn’t know how much he had warmed her by saying that. Nor how much more he warmed her by what he said next. “I’ll feel a lot happier knowing they’re near you.”
“Is that Gaby?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Carole.”
“Just a sec. I’ll move next door.” The girl called, away from the phone, “It’s work, Mum.”
Carole heard a door close and then Gaby’s voice, closer and more intense. “Sorry. Mum’s getting so paranoid every time the phone rings.”
“I don’t blame her. How’re you bearing up, Gaby?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“Is the back troubling you?”
“No.” Gaby almost laughed at the incongruity. “Not a twinge. Maybe I’m better at dealing with real disasters than imagined ones.”
“A lot of us are. Look, I was ringing, because you know Stephen called me about finding a hotel down here.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve got the perfect place. It’s in Fethering, but the other side of the river from the main town. Very few people go over there even in the height of summer. Little place called the Dauncey Hotel. Very friendly, very quiet. Nice sea views, and some good walks if that’s what you feel like. Alternatively, they serve three very good meals a day, if you just want to dig in.”
“I should think the first couple of days we’d just dig in, then maybe consider venturing out. Oh, Carole, thank you so much for sorting that. If we spend another day in this place, we’re both going to go out of our minds – or even more out of our minds than we are already.”
“Well, they’re expecting you some time tomorrow afternoon. And I gather from Stephen that the police are happy about you moving away for a while?”
“So long as we don’t leave the country. They’ve got phone numbers for us, and it won’t take long to get us back to Harlow if there’s any development on the case.”
“And has there been much development on the case?”
Gaby let out a weary sigh.
“I mean, have the police given any indication of the direction in which their enquiries are going?”
“Oh, it’s so hard to tell with them. They just seem to ask the same questions over and over again. And then suddenly they get some new idea, go off at a tangent, and find some new set of questions to ask over and over again.”
“So any pointers towards – ” Carole recovered herself. “I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t be asking you?”
“Don’t worry. It makes a change to have someone who is prepared to talk about it. Mum just clams up. Remembering that Dad’s dead is enough to send her off into floods of tears, before you even start on the circumstances of his death.”
“It must be terrible.” There was a silence. “On the other hand, Gaby, if there is anything you do want to tell me about what the police are saying?”
“Well…reading between the lines of their questioning, they seem to think that th
e person who drove Dad away from the hotel may not necessarily be the one who actually killed him.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently the car was stolen locally, just that evening. The police reckon – don’t know how they’ve got to this point, but they seem to think – that the driver was probably acting under orders, that he just had to drive Dad to some place – possibly the bit of Epping Forest where he was found – to meet someone. And the driver left the two of them there. That’s what they seem to be thinking.”
“Hm.”
“They’ve been asking Phil a lot of questions.”
“Oh?”
“At one time he used to hang around with a pretty unsavoury crowd. I’m not certain that he still doesn’t but basically, if you want to find out about a car thief in the Harlow area, you could do worse than ask Phil Martin.”
“You haven’t had a chance to talk to him?”
“Not on his own, no. I doubt if he’d confide in me even if he did know something. We’ve never been that close.”
“How’s he reacting to his father’s death?”
“Never easy to know with Phil. He was drunk the night it happened, and he seems to have been avoiding confronting it since then by keeping his alcohol level topped up. What he’s feeling inside – well, I’ve never really known what Phil’s feeling inside.”
“Right. Oh, incidentally, Gaby, when you’re down in Fethering – you know, if you want company – do join me at the Crown and Anchor for a drink or…” It went against Carole’s nature to make such an unspecific invitation. Normally, she liked to have her social calendar planned out to the minutest detail, but these were exceptional circumstances.
“That’s very kind.”
“If you feel like it, the offer’s there. If you just want to hide away, that’s fine. I won’t feel offended. I’m not the sort of person to be easily offended.” Even Carole herself could recognize that that wasn’t true.
“Well, can we play it by ear? See how Mum feels?”
“Of course. And if there’s anything practical I can do – shopping or whatever – just let me know.”
“Yes, of course we will. Thank you, Carole.”
“Well, I’d better let you get back to your mother.”
“One thing, Gaby…”
“Mm?”
“You know how unhappy you were – and your mother was, come to that – about the idea of an engagement announcement in the paper?”
“Yes?”
“Was it because you were afraid something like this might happen – that it might draw attention to you – stir up old issues for your family?”
“Yes, Carole, that’s exactly what I was afraid of. And,” she added bitterly, “as it turns out, with good reason.”
“Don’t worry, Gaby, I’m sure the police’ll soon find out what happened to Howard.”
“Hrn. Maybe they will.”
Carole could not fail to respond to the optimism in Gaby’s voice. “You mean they’re close to a breakthrough? Have they actually got a suspect?”
“Well, there’s someone they keep talking about. A man who’s just finished a long prison sentence and now apparently vanished off the face of the earth.”
“And he had some connection with your father?”
“I assume so. I assume that’s why the police keep asking about him.”
“What’s he called?”
“Michael Brewer.”
“Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“And have you asked your mother?”
“I’ve tried, but, as I said, Mum is not being very forthcoming at the moment.”
“But how did she react when the police asked her about this man?”
“She fainted.”
“Oh.”
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Fifteen
“The good thing about it is,” said Jude, “that our geographical problem is partly eased.”
“What do you mean? The location of the crime scene hasn’t changed. Howard Martin was still murdered in Essex.”
“Yes, but now we’ve got his widow and daughter coming down to Fethering, so at least we have a couple of significant figures in the case close by.”
“Maybe close by, but I don’t know that we’re going to get much information out of Marie. Whenever the questions get nasty, she just seems to faint.”
“Convenient.”
“Do you mean psychosomatic?”
“I didn’t say that. On the other hand, Carole – I know you don’t really like the idea – but a lot of illness is psychosomatic. And these things can be hereditary. Gaby reacts to stress by getting a bad back, her mother faints – it could be a similar reaction.”
“Huh,” said Carole, exactly as Jude had known she would.
They were walking along Fethering Beach. The tide was a long way out, and the sand firm beneaththeir feet. In the warm June sunshine, even the sludge-coloured sea was enriched by the reflected blue of the sky. Down by the water’s edge, Gulliver was doing elaborate commando manoeuvres, stalking the bits of seaweed that shuffled on the scummy edges of the waves. For him, Fethering Beach was a canine heaven, full of ambrosial and intriguing smells. Half a day spent on the beach, the other half snuffling sleepily in front of the Aga at High Tor – for Gulliver life could offer nothing more perfect.
“There was something else about heredity I was thinking of,” Jude mused. “Didn’t you say that Howard Martin had had bowel cancer?”
“Yes, but made a complete recovery, I gather. Apparently the scars from the operation were one of the reasons his body was identified so quickly. So they didn’t have to take a DNA sample from Phil.”
“Hm…I was just thinking…I’m not betraying any important confidentiality here, but Gaby did tell me that she had been worried that she might have bowel cancer at one point.”
“But she didn’t have, did she?” asked Carole, alarmed at the threat to her future daughter-in-law’s health.
“No, no, it turned out she just had a mild form of IBS.”
“IBS?”
“Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”
That got another of Carole’s ‘Huhs’. She didn’t believe in illnesses that were called ‘syndromes’. Irritable Bowel Syndrome. False Memory Syndrome.
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Restless Legs Syndrome. She thought they were all just excuses for neurotics to hide behind.
“Anyway, there was no problem with Gaby, but presumably she worried about bowel cancer because her father had had it. There’s quite a strong hereditary connection.”
“Yes. Oh well, I’m glad to hear that she hasn’t got anything serious.”
“No…” Jude was still distracted, as though a sequence of thought was escaping her.
They both stopped for a moment. The skin around Carole’s pale blue eyes puckered as she gazed through her rimless glasses towards the horizon. “I just get the feeling that the reasons for Howard Martin’s death go back a long way. I may be wrong, but my instinct is that they have some connection with what my son charmingly referred to as ‘a history of murder in my fiancée’s family’.”
“But I thought Gaby said it wasn’t actually in her family.”
“No. A school friend of her mother’s got murdered. This is years ago. Before Gaby was born, I think. And then the police investigating Howard’s death seem very interested in someone who’s recently been released from prison, where he was serving a sentence for murder.”
“Oh?”
“Someone called Michael Brewer.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Absolutely nothing. But I was just wondering, Jude, whether he was the culprit in this murder of Marie’s friend. Because, I mean, Gaby’s thirty, so if he’d served a full thirty-year life sentence.”
“Not many prisoners do serve the full term these days, do they? I mean, apart from a few famous cases.”
“ Some do. Early release is usually related to good behav
iour. So if they don’t behave well – if they’re violent, or if they don’t show any remorse for their crime. Come to that, if the sentencing judge recommended a full thirty-year tariff.”
“Mm. Well, it would be interesting if we could find a connection. Where did this murder take place?”
“Worthing.”
A huge beam spread across Jude’s plump face. “I told you our geographical problem was easing.”
“Yes. But how’re we going to find out the details? It could be quite a heavy research job, couldn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jude agreed thoughtfully.
“Well, do you have any bright ideas of how we’d set about it?”
An even broader beam took over. “I do, actually. It will involve someone else – ”
“What?” Carole demanded suspiciously.
“But it’ll still be secret. We’ll still be the only ones who know we’re investigating another murder.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I promise. Come on, you’ll trust me on this, won’t you?”
“Ye-es,” Carole replied distrustfully.
“The Dauncey Hotel’s perfect. I just wanted to ring and thank you for fixing it.”
“A pleasure. How’s your mother?”
“More relaxed already, just because the phone’s not ringing all the time. She’s crying a lot about Dad, but it’s kind of more relaxed, more genuine grief – therapeutic crying.”
“Good. Have you heard from Stephen?”
“Only briefly. Still up to his ears at work. But hopes to get down for a bit of time this weekend.”
“I hope he can manage it. And you haven’t had any calls from the police?”
“Nothing, I’m glad to say. Look, Carole, I’d better go. I don’t like to leave Mum on her own for too long.”
“No, of course not. And do remember my offer if you fancy getting out for a meal or anything.”
“Sure. Thanks. I’ll be in touch. Bye.”
“Have you rung anyone?”
Jude knew the answer before she asked the question. Gita Millington lay listlessly draped over the sofa, the television flickering an unseen cookery programme at her.
“Do you think a glass of wine might help?”
Gita shrugged. “About all I’m fit for, probably. Drinking up your booze. Leeching on your goodwill.”
