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

by Simon Brett

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Just that his name was Mick Brewer.”

  “Did he say how he’d got your number?”

  “Yes.” An involuntary shudder ran through Gaby’s body. “He said he’d got it from my address book.”

  “How could he have got your address book?”

  “There’s only one way.” Gaby looked terrified as she pieced the thought together. “It must have been him, Mick Brewer, who burgled my flat. My address book was there, among the things that had been moved, so he must have looked at it. That means he knows where I live. He must have been following me formonths.” She let out a little gasp of pure fear. “He must know where I am now.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Carole, more reassuring than she felt. “You’re safe here.”

  “But for how long? Anyway, who is he? Who is Mick Brewer?”

  “You know who he is. Inspector Pollard asked you about him.”

  “Yes. But he didn’t give me any detail. Except that he’d just come out of prison after serving a very long sentence – which I would assume means he committed some violent crime. Do you know anything more than that about him, Carole?”

  Her future daughter-in-law was in no state to hear all the details that Gita Millington had unearthed about the murder of Janine Buckley. So Carole ignored the question, as if she’d just had a new and urgent thought. “You must ring Inspector Pollard.”

  “What?”

  “He was asking you about Michael Brewer, wasn’t he? You must tell him about the call. I’m sure the police can trace where he was ringing from. They might be able to find him. Then you won’t have to worry any more.”

  Gaby saw the logic. She quickly rang a number she’d scribbled on the back of a till receipt, and was put straight through to Inspector Pollard. It was clear from her reactions that he took what she was saying very seriously indeed.

  When the call was over, Gaby looked ruefully at Carole. “So much for my idea of normality returning, of going back to work. The Inspector wants me in Harlow.”

  “And your mother too?”

  Gaby nodded. “He says he reckons we’ll be safer there. Though Harlow didn’t turn out to be very safe for Dad, did it?” A sob caught her unawares. “God, this whole thing’s a nightmare, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it’s a nightmare that’s about to end. By phoning you, Michael Brewer’s broken cover. It won’t take the police long to find him now.”

  “I hope to God you’re right, Carole. I don’t know how much more of this I can take!”

  Carole found herself instinctively reaching across to take the girl’s hands in hers. This surprised her, because she didn’t think she ever did anything instinctively. Maybe Gaby’s troubles were helping to find a new softness beneath the carapace of Carole Seddon’s personality.

  “It’ll be all right,” she found herself saying. “Come on, I’ll drive you back to the Dauncey Hotel. It’ll be quicker that way. Soon you won’t have anything else to worry about.”

  How untrue that remark turned out to be. As soon as Carole switched on the ignition of the Renault, Radio Four came on, right in the middle of the World At One opening news bulletin “…and the man whose body was found in a burnt-out car on the South Downs near Fethering in Sussex has been identified as Barry Painter of Harlow, in Essex…”

  “Oh, my God,” Gaby breathed. “Bazza!”

  ∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧

  Twenty-Three

  Marie Martin was not at the Dauncey Hotel when they arrived. Gaby’s instinctive panic was allayed by the girl on reception who said her mother had just gone along the beach for a walk. In other circumstances, this would have been good news – the fact that Marie was feeling sufficiently together to do something on her own – but Gaby couldn’t see that. She was too stressed by the need to get back to Essex as soon as possible.

  “Don’t worry,” said Carole. “You go up to your room and get packed. I’ll go and meet Marie.”

  There was only one direction in which her quarry was likely to have walked: east on the path through the dunes. The other way led back into Fethering, and Carole felt sure Marie Martin would have chosen privacy over people.

  The woman was not in sight, but there was no danger that Carole would miss her. Only a thin strip of the dunes was available to walkers, separated by a high fence of wire netting from the inland golf course. On the other side the dunes gave way to the beach, which could be seen clearly from the pathway. Carole wasbound either to catch up with Marie while she was still on her outward course, or meet her coming back.

  The second proved to be the case. Carole saw a small figure in a beige raincoat – hardly necessary on such a warm day – coming towards her. At first glimpse she suspected it to be Marie, and a closer view left her in no doubt.

  When the woman saw who it was coming towards her, she looked panicked, but there was no escape. The encounter could not be avoided. She had managed to manufacture a smile by the time Carole was within speaking distance.

  There was no point in trying to sugar the pill. Marie Martin had to hear the truth. She couldn’t be protected from everything all through her life. The kid gloves with which she was habitually treated had to come off. And it gave Carole an unworthy feeling of satisfaction that she was the one taking the kid gloves off.

  “Marie, I’m afraid you’re going to have to go back to Harlow. Gaby’s had a call from Michael Brewer.”

  The woman’s first reaction was to totter, as if she was about to faint, but she recovered herself. Cynically, Carole reckoned that Marie had weighed up the options and realized that her customary exit route from a sticky situation wasn’t going to work. Fainting out there on the sparsely peopled dunes would have little effect. It wouldn’t cause a disruption, and when she came round, her nemesis, Carole Seddon, would still be there confronting her.

  “I don’t know who you mean,” Marie faltered. And she started to walk briskly back through the dunes towards the Dauncey Hotel.

  “You know perfectly well. Robert told me the whole history.” That was only partially true – she’d got other bits from other sources – but it would do at that moment. “Michael Brewer was someone you and Robert knew when you were at school. He murdered your friend Janine Buckley.”

  Marie Martin couldn’t argue against that level of research. “And you say he called Pascale?”

  “On her mobile.”

  “How on earth did he get the number?”

  “It seems pretty certain that he was the one who burgled her flat. Her mobile number’s right in the front of her address book.”

  Gaby’s mother looked pale and shocked, but not as though she were about to faint. She’d temporarily given up on that form of escape.

  “Marie, you could make things a lot simpler if you told me more of what you know about Michael Brewer.”

  “Why should I tell you? What business is it of yours?”

  Which was actually a perfectly reasonable question. And one which amateur sleuths have always found difficult to answer. Still, Carole came up with a reasonable justification. “It’s my business because Gaby is about to become my daughter-in-law. I care about her welfare. She’s under a tremendous amount of stress at the moment, and a lot of that stress has something to do with Michael Brewer. If you shared abit more of what you know about him, we might see ways of making things easier for her.”

  “Of course Pascale’s under stress. My husband was murdered last week.”

  “And do you think the person who committed that murder was Michael Brewer?”

  Marie’s eyes avoided Carole’s. “There are obviously similarities with the way Janine was killed.”

  “So, thirty years on, as soon as he’s served his sentence, Michael Brewer kills again. But why did he pick on Howard? Was it revenge? What might he have against your husband?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Carole felt certain that wasn’t true, but it was said with a determination that of
fered no prospect of a climb-down. Still she persisted. “Howard was going to meet Michael Brewer the day after he died. He said so at the engagement party. Just before you fainted.”

  “I don’t remember,” said Marie unhelpfully.

  “And you yourself have had no personal contact from Michael Brewer?”

  “I haven’t seen or heard from him since he was arrested for Janine’s murder.”

  A new thought came to Carole. “And did you think you’d escaped him? Did you think he’d never track you down?” Now she’d made the connection, the ideas were tumbling out. “Is that why you always wanted to keep a low profile? And why you didn’t want any announcement of Stephen and Gaby’s engagement in the national press? You thought that might give Mick Brewer a clue to find you?”

  Carole was convinced that she was right, but got no admissions from Marie Martin. Instead, as if she’d heard none of the questions, the woman asked, “Why do Pascale and I have to go back to Essex?”

  “She spoke to Inspector Pollard, told him about the telephone call. He wants to talk to her. Maybe he wants to protect her.”

  Marie thought about this idea. “Being in Essex didn’t protect Howard,” she said finally.

  “Are you suggesting that Gaby’s in real danger?”

  A bleakness came into the woman’s faded eyes. “After what happened to Howard, everyone’s in real danger.”

  They were nearly back at the hotel. Carole was about to lose her unwilling interviewee. “Marie,” she pleaded, “have you any idea where Michael Brewer might be at the moment?”

  “Well, he won’t be in Essex. This is Mick’s area. He knew this bit of the country like the back of his hand. This is always where he would come back to.”

  “But where specifically? If the police are looking for him…”

  Marie Martin smiled a pale smile. “The police caught Mick Brewer once. No way he’d let that happen a second time. He’s a devious character. And you forget, he used to work as a gamekeeper. He always had his own secret places. If Mick Brewer doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be found.”

  And with that frustrating incomplete parting shot, Marie Martin scuttled off into the Dauncey Hotel. “You’re low.”

  Gita Millington agreed listlessly that she was low. “It’s after all that excitement of researching Michael Brewer.”

  “Yes. That put me on a high, made me think I could do things again, even made me think I could start my career again. Now I don’t think I could start a rumour.”

  “It’ll come back, the confidence.”

  “Will it, Jude? I wonder. I just see myself getting older and older, and less and less attractive, and more and more out of touch with the world of work…” Her voice spiralled down into despair.

  Gita was again flat out on the sitting-room sofa. She was back to T-shirt, jogging bottoms and not a dab of make-up. Jude felt the weariness of responsibility. Inviting Gita into her home had been a voluntary act, and not one she regretted, but she wished she could do more to make her friend feel better. She had contemplated suggesting alternative treatments for depression, but felt that might be taking advantage of her privileged position as the patient’s hostess. Jude knew of cases where acupuncture had worked, reflexology, even some of her own healing techniques. But she felt that, while Gita was under the hospital’s regime of medication, she shouldn’t interfere. Though Jude’s own belief was that traditional and alternative medicines could work in a complementary way, she didn’t want to impose her views. Gita was sufficiently traumatized already by the suddenness of her depression; she didn’t need further confusion.

  Still, there was one therapy which had been proved to work, if only for a short time. More of the same was at least worth trying. “You know, I have a theory about murder cases…” Jude announced.

  “Oh? Really?” Gita was bewildered by the abrupt change of subject. “What are you talking about? Michael Brewer?”

  “I’m talking in general terms, but it applies to him too.”

  “All right. What is your theory?”

  “It’s not a very revolutionary one. Just that what happens before the murder is at least as relevant as what happens after it.”

  “How do you mean?” Already Gita’s back was straighter. She was more alert. Jude had hooked her attention.

  “Well, a murder is a shock to a community…”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Probably the ultimate shock, really. And in a lot of cases, the murder is the culmination of a lot of things that have been going wrong, tensions that have been building up. So to understand the crime, you have to understand the circumstances which led to that crime. In other words, a good murder investigation not only fingers the perpetrator, it also gives an understanding of the society in which it took place.”

  “I’d go along with that, Jude. So, if you apply this to the Michael Brewer case?”

  “I’m saying that to understand his crime, we need to know the world in which it happened.”

  “Find out what his life was like before the murder?”

  “Exactly.” It was disingenuous, but in the cause of Gita’s recovery, Jude asked, “Any thoughts how we might set about doing that?”

  A large smile crept across Gita Millington’s unpainted lips. “Do you know – I think I might have.”

  ∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧

  Twenty-Four

  Jude had her own research methods too. As part of her varied work portfolio, she still did occasional discussion sessions at Austen Open Prison, which was a little way along the coast from Fethering. They were called ‘New Approaches’, discussion groups involving a shifting repertoire of prisoners, with subjects ranging from alternative therapy through guilt and morality to life skills and philosophy. Many of the attendants were lifers – which meant murderers – spending the last few years of their long sentences in an environment which was supposed to be more like the outside world than a high-security prison. These sessions had been organized by Austen’s Education Officer, Sandy Fairbarns, someone who, though they’d never met outside work, Jude regarded as a friend.

  Her next ‘New Approaches’ session was scheduled for the Tuesday after Gaby had received the call from Michael Brewer, and Jude had set her plan in motion with a call to Sandy Fairbarns that morning.

  “I have found someone,” Sandy announced immediately Jude arrived at the Austen main entrance prior to her session. “Name’s Jimmy Troop. He came across Michael Brewer in Parkhurst, and he’s prepared to talk to you.”

  “Does that mean I’ll need one of those – what are they called? V something?”

  “VO. Visiting Order. Yes, you’d have to get that if you did it in normal visiting times. But there’s another way.”

  “Really?” They were walking towards the education building, between the pale yellow one-storey blocks that housed Austen’s inmates. The borders that fringed the path were beautifully kept, a regimented profusion of marigolds, alyssum, blue and red salvias and lobelias, which bore testimony to the painstaking horticultural skills of the prisoners.

  Sandy grinned. “I’ve checked it out with the guard who’s on the education block this afternoon. You can have a quarter of an hour with Jimmy after your session.”

  “Brilliant. And he’s agreeable?”

  “Jimmy is extremely agreeable. Very cultured and amiable man, Jimmy. One of nature’s gentlemen.”

  “Ye-es. Except presumably at some point in his life, he did murder someone.”

  Sandy Fairbarns gave her a look of mock-reproach. “Really, Jude. You mustn’t let yourself be prejudiced by things like that.”

  The session Jude conducted that afternoon followed the pattern of her previous ones. About a dozen prisoners attended. Some were there for the first time, some were regulars. And some regulars whom she’d been expecting weren’t there. They might have been released, they might have got bored, they might have found a game of football a more attractive option; inside a prison you could never know. Jud
e no longer went into the education block with any expectations of who might be there; she worked with the attendance she had.

  Perhaps influenced by her recent conversations with Gita Millington, Jude started that afternoon with the issue of self-esteem, the roots of confidence and the threats to it. As ever, the topic mutated into something else, this time the issue of aggression, in both its internal and external manifestations. And as ever, after a jerky start, the dialogue developed, the inarticulate became more fluent, and the shy encountered subjects on which they could not keep silent.

  Even before he gave his name, Jude would have recognized Jimmy Troop from Sandy’s description. He was in his early sixties, a tall thin man whose thick brown hair was white at the temples. Even though dressed in prison denims and trainers, he carried the air of a man in tailor-made suit, highly polished brogues and Garrick Club tie. What crime had brought him to his current circumstances, and how someone of his background had survived the considerably tougher circumstances of other prisons, though intriguing questions, were ones to which Jude never expected to find the answers.

  In that afternoon’s debate Jimmy Troop was extremely articulate, but did not allow his superior education to upstage the contributions of his rougher colleagues. Jude was interested to observe the respectand positive affection with which he was treated by his fellow inmates.

  The two hours of ‘New Approaches’ flashed by, and, on a nod from the guard who sat in the corridor outside their classroom, Jimmy Troop lingered as the other prisoners filed out. This was always a moment of transition. The articulacy – and even intimacy – of the recent discussion suddenly dissipated as the reality of prison life reasserted itself. The men became awkward, their farewells to Jude clumsy or often nonexistent.

  “Well, I’m very honoured,” said Jimmy Troop, when they were alone in the room. Whatever else prison might have done to him, it hadn’t diminished his patrician charm. He still remembered how to treat a lady.

  Jude went to close the door.

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.” She stopped at Jimmy’s words. The guard sitting on the landing didn’t look as if he cared much whether the door was open or closed. “Kind of thing that gets misinterpreted in a place like this,” the prisoner explained. Jude moved away from the open door and sat down, facing him. “Not of course that you wouldn’t be safe with me – I know what befits a gentleman – but there’s always the risk of making the other fellows jealous.”