The Fethering Mysteries 06; The Witness at the Wedding tfm-6

by Simon Brett

  Such remarks didn’t deserve any response. Jude went through to the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses. When they were charged, she switched off the television and sat down facing herfriend. “Listen, Gita, I have a proposition to put to you.”

  “Goodness. I can’t remember how long it is since I was last propositioned.”

  “Look, at the moment you think you’re never going to pick up your career as a journalist again.”

  “I don’t think it. I know it. Whatever skill I used to have – well, it’s just gone. I used to be able to cold-call twenty editors in a morning till one would accept the idea I was flogging. Now I’m afraid even to ring one who’s a close friend and to whose daughter I’m godmother. It’s just gone.”

  “The confidence has gone. But I’m sure the ability hasn’t.”

  Gita puffed out a despairing breath. “I’ve no idea. At the moment I think the ability’s gone too, but it doesn’t make a lot of difference either way. Oh, and this was going to be a breakthrough time in my life. I was going to move gradually away from journalism and start writing books. Non-fiction, maybe true crime, but until I can start selling myself again, it doesn’t matter whether I have any ability or not.”

  “Listen. When you were writing articles, you used to do a lot of research, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. You had to do research.”

  “Right. So if you had a job to do, you’d know where to go to get the right research information?”

  “Of course I would. But since I’m currently incapable of picking up the phone to get myself a job…”

  “Suppose I gave you a job.”

  “Jude, you’re a very dear friend, and I love you very much, but one thing I can’t help noticing about you is you’re not a magazine editor.”

  “I know that. But there’s still something that I want researched.”

  “What?” For the first time, there was a little glimmer of interest in Gita’s eye.

  “I can’t tell you why I want it researched, and, I’m sorry to say, I can’t pay you for researching it.”

  “Jude, after what I owe you in hospitality and kindness and listening to me maundering on, I wouldn’t take your money whatever you wanted me to do.”

  “All right. Well, what I was thinking was, that if you do this research job for me and you do it well – which I know you will – it might make you realize that you haven’t lost all your old skills, that there are still things you can do.”

  “So it’d be like a dry run?”

  “Exactly. And once you’ve proved you can still do it, I think the confidence might return for you to do the real thing.”

  Gita’s lips twisted wryly. “Nice thought, but I doubt it.” She was hooked, though. “Come on, Jude, what is it that you want me to research?”

  ∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧

  Sixteen

  If it had done nothing else, the prospect of having a research project had sharpened up Gita Millington’s personal grooming. When she set off next morning to start her investigations, she was dressed in a smart black trouser suit over a turquoise blouse and black shoes with long screwdriver toes. She’d also done some personal colouring in the shower (she didn’t feel she could face a public hairdresser yet), and her hair was back to its uniform dark brown glossiness. And, even more encouragingly for Jude, she’d put on her full war paint. Very skilfully. She had taken ten years off her face. Gita looked what she was – what she feared she would never be again – a successful journalist setting out on an assignment.

  Her manner of speaking had also undergone a total make-over. “I’m going to start in the archives of the Fethering Observer. That is your only local paper, isn’t it?”

  “Only really local one. There’s also the West Sussex Gazette, which as the name implies, covers the whole county.”

  “I’ll probably try that too. Then move on to the nationals. If it was a big murder trial, then there would have been a lot of coverage. I did a bit of preliminary stuff last night on the internet.”

  “That’s working all right, is it?” Jude had inherited a laptop from her late lover Laurence Hawker. She very rarely used it herself, but had offered Gita the facility.

  “Absolutely fine. It’s a nice machine.”

  “Well, it’s already done some useful research into another murder, so let’s hope that’s a good omen.” Jude felt a slight melancholy pang for the loss of Laurence.

  “Yes. Don’t worry, Jude, I’ll get the information you need.”

  And Gita left, as bouncy as the intrepid boy reporter Tintin embarking on a new assignment. Which made Jude feel very good.

  What made her feel slightly less good was the prospect of telling Carole that it was Gita who was becoming a part – albeit an as yet unwitting part – of their murder investigation.

  “Carole…”

  “Gaby, what is it? You sound upset. Is your mother all right?”

  “She’s fine. Mind you, she wouldn’t be if she’d heard the news that I’ve just heard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The police have taken Phil in for questioning.”

  Carole picked Gaby up at the Dauncey Hotel. Marie Martin was having an afternoon sleep, and her daughter felt safe to leave her for half an hour. She didn’t want to talk in the hotel, so Carole drove to a car park on a nearby beach. On the far side of the River Fether from Fethering itself were rambling dunes topped with coxcombs of rough, springy grass. At weekends, the car parks and the beach filled up, but that June afternoon there were only a few dog walkers and a couple of young parents with tiny offspring on the sand.

  “Do you want to walk or just sit?”

  Gaby opted for just sitting. They wound down the car’s windows. A slight breeze aerated the car with the smell of the sea, as Carole waited patiently for the girl to get her thoughts together and start talking.

  “OK. I had a call from Inspector Pollard this morning. He just told me that ‘he thought we would like to know’ that my brother Philip Martin is currently ‘helping them with their enquiries’.”

  “But he hasn’t been charged with anything?”

  “No.”

  “So did Inspector Pollard say what they were questioning him about?”

  “In connection with your father’s death’.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a suspect.”

  “I know it doesn’t.”

  “You said yourself that Phil’s always going to be under suspicion if there’s a car theft in Harlow involved.”

  “I know. But it’s unsettling.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “The fact that I can’t just ring Phil to find out what the hell’s going on. The fact that there’s yet another thing I have to keep secret from Mum.”

  “But there was never any conflict between Phil and your father, was there? You always seemed to imply that they got on well.”

  “Yes, they did – in a fairly silent sort of masculine way. You know, they’d go off and have a few beers together. There was maybe a bit of a rift when Phil got sent to prison, but I think Dad was more upset than angry.”

  “What did Phil actually go to prison for? I never heard the details.”

  “Nicking stuff. Cars, mostly. He was funding a drug habit.”

  “And does he still use drugs?”

  “Supposedly not. He’s meant to have turned over a new leaf since he started this new job in Hoddesdon?”

  “You don’t sound very certain.”

  “No, I’m not. He might have given up, he might still be a user – I don’t know. As you may have gathered, Phil and I don’t have an enormous amount in common.”

  “No. Were you close when you were growing up?”

  “Not really. I suppose I liked girlie things. He liked cars and guns and football, you know, boys’ toys. And, well…” Gaby hesitated for a moment before saying, “It wasn’t really a very relaxed atmosphere to grow up in.”

  Carole wasn’t sure
whether or not she should askthe question, but she did anyway. “You mean there were tensions between your parents?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “But when I’ve met them, they’ve seemed devoted to each other.”

  “Yes, they are devoted to each other, but…” Gaby seemed to backtrack, feeling she’d probably said too much already. “Anyway, Phil and I have never been exactly soulmates. Very different personalities, and, increasingly, very different interests and lifestyles.”

  “Yes.” Carole thought of Gaby’s life as a theatrical agent, spending most of her evenings watching clients or potential clients strutting their stuff on various stages round the countryside. She somehow couldn’t imagine that Phil had ever been to a theatre.

  “But, thinking back to your childhood, which is often when patterns of behaviour are established, can you think of any incident where Phil and your father fell out? Anything he might have had against your father?”

  “For heaven’s sake.”

  “You’re not suggesting Phil killed him, are you?”

  “No,” said Carole, with more conviction than she felt. “I’m just trying to cover all the possibilities.”

  “Well, that’s not one of them.”

  “Right.” She felt she should be apologizing, but couldn’t think of the right words, and so moved on. “You don’t suppose the police might be thinking that it was Phil in the car that drove your father away from the hotel?”

  “If they are thinking that, they’re wrong. Phil was still at the party when Dad left. He went off later on his precious motorbike. I remember, because I asked whether he was in a fit state to drive back to Hoddesdon. As usual, Phil didn’t listen to me.”

  “Though in fact he didn’t go back to Hoddesdon, did he? I heard he’d spent that night in Harlow.”

  “That’s right. Drank a lot more and crashed out on a friend’s floor. So hungover the next morning he didn’t go into work.”

  “Any idea who that friend might have been?”

  Gaby shrugged. “Could have been any one of a number. There’s a crowd Phil goes around with. They’ve all got bikes, and are all probably a bit on the shady side of the law. The one he’s most likely to have crashed out on is a guy called Bazza. Small-time crook, nicknamed ‘Teflon Bazza’.” Carole looked quizzical, so Gaby explained, “So called because he seems to lead a charmed life. Nothing sticks. Keeps getting nicked for stuff, but so far has managed to stay out of prison. Had a really rotten childhood and people feel sorry for him. Magistrates keep letting him off lightly, in the hope that he’ll reform and become a useful member of society.”

  Gaby’s tone showed how unlikely she thought that ever was to happen. Carole, whose experiences in the Home Office had brought home to her both the necessity of prison as a punishment and its uselessness in changing criminal patterns of behaviour, was also sceptical.

  “But you don’t know for certain that Phil was with Bazza that night?”

  “I’m guessing, but I think it seems likely.”

  “Hr.” Carole digested the new information. It wasn’t a lot. “Oh, have you heard from Stephen again. Is he going to come down this weekend?”

  “He’s hoping to. Thinks Sunday looks pretty good, and with a bit of luck he’ll be here for both days. But Uncle Robert’s definitely coming. He’s booked in for Saturday night at the Dauncey.”

  “That’s good. It’ll take the pressure off you a bit with your mother.”

  “Sure. And Mum really responds to Robert. She always perks up when he’s around. I’ve been trying to ring him today, to see if he can get any information on what’s happening to Phil – you know, through the police old boy network – but he hasn’t rung me back yet.”

  “I really wouldn’t worry about Phil, Gaby. He can’t have had anything to do with your father’s death.”

  “No.” But her voice didn’t ring with conviction.

  “I’m afraid he’s just suffering from ingrained prejudice.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There’s a knee-jerk reaction, I’m afraid, in certain areas of the police force. If a crime’s committed, they go straight to the nearest person with a criminal record.”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

  Suddenly, to her surprise, Carole found that Gaby was sobbing. Instinctively – though uncharacteristically – she put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “It’s all right. You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  “I know. I was just thinking about the wedding – and Dad’s death – and the fact that he won’t be there.”

  “It’s dreadful, but” – Carole searched her mind for something comforting to say – “you’ll just have to imagine that the day is dedicated to his memory.”

  “Mm. He would have been so proud. Dad wasn’t ever very demonstrative, or very articulate, come to that, but he did love me in his way.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “He was very proud of me. Of my career – of everything. He would have been very proud to see me married.”

  “I know.”

  Gaby wiped her nose forcibly with the back of her hand, as though to put an end to her weakness. “Still – Mum’ll get one of the things she wanted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’ll see Uncle Robert leading me up the aisle. Mum always had more time for Uncle Robert than she did for Dad. In fact – ” tears threatened again – “I think Dad had a rather miserable life being married to Mum.”

  Carole waited to see if more information might be forthcoming. Rather to her surprise, there was. “I don’t know the details, but they never seemed to be very close physically. Wouldn’t surprise me if they stopped having any kind of sex-life after Phil was born. I certainly didn’t get the impression there was much going on while I was growing up. Maybe it was something to do with the age gap. And then, of course, Dad was always being compared – unfavourably – to Uncle Robert.”

  She turned her blue eyes on Carole, and her tears gave way to a little dry chuckle. “One thing Steve will never have to worry about in our marriage – being compared unfavourably to my brother.”

  ∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧

  Seventeen

  There was a message from Jude on the High Tor answering machine when Carole got back from her talk with Gaby. Gulliver left her in no doubt that he really fancied – and was owed – a walk, but the summons to Woodside Cottage was more intriguing. His brown eyes followed her reproachfully out of the front door. Call yourself a dog owner? they seemed to say.

  Carole’s excitement was considerably dampened when she found that Jude was not alone. Gita Millington was also there, almost unrecognizable in a smart black trouser suit and full make-up.

  Jude dealt with the sticky point of diplomacy by a characteristically frontal approach. “I asked Gita to do some research for us.”

  “What?” Carole was appalled, but, as Jude had anticipated, was too well brought-up to make a big issue of the betrayal while Gita was actually present. When they were alone, recrimination would inevitably follow.

  “I haven’t heard any of it yet – you know, the stuff Gita’s found out,” said Jude. “I wanted to wait till you were here.”

  The expression on Carole’s face did not suggest that this was sufficient compensation for the sin of involving Gita Millington in their own private murder mystery, but Jude felt confident her friend would soon get caught up in the drama of the situation.

  On Gita’s black-trousered knees was a folder, which she opened with some deliberation. Inside were sheets of handwritten notes and photocopies of newspaper cuttings. “These are my preliminary findings,” she said, with a new authority in her voice. “I’ve got this stuff from local newspaper sources, mostly the archives of the Fethering Observer, and what you’ll hear is the main outline of the case. But, if you want more detail, I’m very happy to extend my researches.”

  Neither of the other women spoke. The transformed Gita Millington hel
d the floor and their complete attention.

  “Jude, you asked me to find out what I could about a man called Michael Brewer, who was involved in a murder case in the Worthing area about thirty years ago. I can confirm that on the seventeenth of October 1974 Michael Graham Brewer was found guilty in a trial at the Old Bailey of the murder of Janine Buckley, who had died on the twenty-first of November the previous year. Brewer was sentenced to life imprisonment, and the judge recommended that he should not be released until he had served at least thirty years.”

  Gita was confident enough to take a long pause, knowing that neither Carole nor Jude would want to break her spell.

  “The circumstances of the murder were particularly callous. Janine Buckley was a seventeen-year-old girl studying for her A levels at a convent school in Worthing. Brewer, who was twenty-three at the time, worked as a gamekeeper on a large estate near Fed-borough. Janine Buckley had apparently met him at a discotheque in Worthing, and a relationship developed between them. The girl became pregnant and, having been brought up a Catholic, refused to have the abortion that Brewer wanted her to have. Unwilling to take the responsibility for a child, he decided the simplest way out of his predicament was to murder the girl. He strangled her, and then tried to hide the evidence of his crime by putting her body into a stolen car, to which he subsequently set fire.”

  That prompted a simultaneous intake of breath from the two listeners. Jude looked across at Carole, glad to see her friend was now so caught up in Gita’s narrative that all resentment was forgotten.

  “The burnt-out car was found deep into a wood on the estate where Michael Brewer worked. Though he continued to protest his innocence throughout his trial, there was compelling evidence against him. The alibi he put forward for the time of the murder proved to be a lie and, though the victim’s body was too badly burnt to show any traces of her murderer, Brewer’s fingerprints were found inside the boot of the stolen car and on an abandoned petrol can which had been used as an accelerant to set the vehicle alight. The jurytook less than two hours to reach a unanimous verdict of guilty. The trial judge described the murder as ‘a crime of exceptional wickedness, in the perpetration of which Brewer had showed a cynical disregard for all humane instincts, and had destroyed the life of a young girl and her unborn child from motives of pure selfishness.’ When Michael Brewer was driven away from the Old Bailey after sentencing, a large crowd of angry protesters shouted messages of hatred and threw various projectiles at the van which was carrying him.”