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

by Simon Brett

  Once she was safely seated, he sat down and smiled a rather wistful smile. “Mind you, I’m not sure that I would be much threat to a lady these days, anyway. The years pass, you know, and it’s rather a while since I had the opportunity to put it to the test.”

  “Still, you’ll be out soon, won’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes…” he agreed, but not as though he regarded freedom as an unmixed blessing. Quickly shutting off introspection, he went on, “Still, we mustn’t waste our time. I have been granted a bonus quarter of an hour of your delectable company – ” The compliment was played with light irony – “while you have a quarter of an hour of detailed brain-picking.”

  “Sandy did tell you what it was about?”

  “And who it was about, yes. Michael Brewer. I read everything in the press about the Janine Buckley murder – in happier times – little thinking that I would one day find myself in the same situation as its perpetrator. I joined him later. I wasn’t given such an extensive sentence for my own…peccadillo.” He pronounced the word lightly, but without real humour. “Very well. What can I tell you about my fellow-participant in Her Majesty’s pleasure?”

  “Michael Brewer was released last year, having served his full thirty-year sentence.”

  “I suppose he would have been. I haven’t done the arithmetic, but, yes, that would be about right.”

  “Since his release, though, no one’s seen him. He hasn’t turned up for any of the scheduled meetings with his probation officer.”

  “Ah.” Jimmy Troop nodded.

  “You don’t look surprised.”

  “No, dear lady. I got the impression that Michael Brewer – a few people in Parkhurst called him Mick, but I never attained that level of intimacy. Anyway, I got the impression that he was of a reclusive nature, so after thirty years of enforced human society, I think hemight well have got away from people as soon as he had the opportunity.”

  “How well did you know him, Jimmy?”

  The man shrugged his thin shoulders. “Relationships in prison are mostly tangential. Oh, you hear stories of love affairs and things. In my experience, not a lot of that went on. Generally, there are some people you never speak to – and never want to speak to. The occasional – very occasional – real soul mate, and the vast majority with whom one might exchange a word at a meal time, or during exercise.”

  “And for you, Michael Brewer fitted into that ‘vast majority’ category?”

  He nodded, then smiled wryly. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, Jude – It is Jude, isn’t it?”

  She confirmed that it was.

  “Then I hope you don’t mind my saying what a rare pleasure it is for me to sit and talk to an attractive woman?”

  She giggled, playing along with his gallantry. “It’s a fairly rare pleasure for me to sit and talk to an attractive man.”

  She had got the tone just right. With another wry smile, he thanked her. “But enough of this flirtatious badinage. The sands of our quarter of an hour are trickling away. What can I tell you about Michael Brewer?”

  “Would you describe him as a violent man?”

  “Given the nature of his crime, he was always going to have that reputation.”

  “But any signs of violence inside the prison?”

  “No. He kept his nose clean. A model prisoner.”

  “Any vices, habits, hobbies?”

  “He played cards. Well, no, that’s probably the wrong thing to say – playing cards implies that you play them with other people. Michael Brewer just played patience. Endlessly, round and round. Always had a pack of cards with him. I think he must have known a variety of versions of the game. You’d go mad just doing the same thing time and again.”

  “Or maybe the appeal of the game was doing the same thing time and again?”

  Jimmy Troop thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “You could be right. A good name for a prisoner’s game, isn’t it? Patience?”

  For the first time in their encounter, a shadow of pain crossed his face. But his customary urbanity was quickly reasserted.

  “Anything else I can tell you about my fellow inmate?”

  “I heard that he always protested his innocence of Janine Buckley’s murder.”

  Jimmy Troop spread his hands wide. “Show me the prisoner who doesn’t protest his innocence. Oh, there are the hard ones who boast all the time about the crimes they’ve committed, and a good few crimes they’ve only committed in their imaginations, but for most of us the image of innocence is very potent. You’d wake up in the morning from a dream that you hadn’t committed your crime, a seductive dream, a very real dream, and then you’d look around your cell, and the unarguable reality would hit you…” Hepaused, again straying dangerously close to personal territory, then, with a patrician smile, moved on. “Sorry, you were asking me about the violence in Michael Brewer.”

  “Yes. You think it was still there?”

  “Very definitely. He wasn’t demonstrative, but there was a lot of anger bottled up inside him. He had scores to settle.”

  “To settle when he was finally released?”

  “I would assume so, yes.”

  “He never told you what those scores were?”

  An apologetic shake of the head. “As I say, I wasn’t one of his close associates. And I’d have been surprised if he had confided that kind of information even to a close associate, assuming that he ever had any.”

  “Did he mention where he might go when he was released?”

  “He always spoke fondly of Sussex. Brighton area, Worthing, round there.” Jimmy Troop looked out through the metal-framed windows to the grey-blue humps of the South Downs. “Pity he wasn’t sent here to Austen. He’d have liked it.” A second thought came to him. “Though maybe he would have found it even more frustrating, being so close to where he wanted to be. Maybe he’d have done a runner. Not difficult to get out of a place like this.”

  “Jimmy, from what you know of Michael Brewer, which I know isn’t a lot, but going on your instinct, do you think he’d be capable of committing another murder?”

  The gentleman in denim laughed, then fixed Jude’s brown eyes with his and said, with total seriousness, “Oh yes. But then we’d all be capable of that, wouldn’t we? It’s committing the first one that takes us by surprise.”

  As he spoke the words, he seemed to open a window on to a vista of infinite pain. But only for a second. The mask of languid charm was quickly put back in place, as he looked up to see the guard on the landing tapping his watch.

  “Dear lady, I fear our most enjoyable quarter of an hour is at an end.” Jimmy Troop rose from his seat, the complete gentleman. “I’d offer to see you to the gate, Jude – ” he gave a self-depreciating shrug – “but, sadly, circumstances do not allow me to do that.”

  ∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧

  Twenty-Five

  The afternoon that Jude was talking to Jimmy Troop, Carole had a phone call.

  “Erm…it’s…erm…”

  “Hello, David.”

  “I gather…erm…that Gaby and her mother are no longer down in Fethering.”

  “No. I think they’re both in Harlow.”

  “Marie is certainly, but I believe Gaby’s back in her own flat now. She’s returned to work.”

  “Has she?” Carole couldn’t repress a feeling of pique that he had this information and she didn’t.

  “Yes, I was talking to Stephen last night and he told me,” said David, rubbing it in. “Which, anyway, I thought was a good…erm…opportunity for us to go back to my plan.”

  “Your plan? What on earth are you talking about, David?”

  “My plan for the four of us to…erm…as it were, have dinner together.”

  “Oh. Well, yes, I’m sure…at some point.”

  “Stephen said he and Gaby could do Thursday evening.”

  “Could they? Well…um…”

  “Have you got anything on on Thursday night, Carole?”

&n
bsp; “I might have – I’m not entirely sure.”

  “It would be good for us to…erm…get together as a foursome.”

  “Maybe. But I’m sure Gaby’s not ready for something like that yet. She’s in a very bad state about her father’s death, and she’s worried about her mother, so I’m sure she’d rather put off that kind of social encounter for – ”

  “Yes, I suppose she might. But if she did feel up to it, then you would join us, wouldn’t you? It would mean so much to Stephen.”

  First Gaby, now David, thought Carole. Why’s everyone trying to blackmail me about my duty to my son? Trouble was, the blackmail was working, making her say things against her better judgement.

  “Well, look, David, if it happens, I suppose I could be free.”

  From David’s enthusiastic reaction no one would have guessed how gracelessly she had said the words. “That’s terrific, Carole. I knew you’d be up for it. Look, I’ll…erm…ring you before Thursday with the fine-tuning – details of times and…erm…where we’re going and…erm…”

  Oh God, thought Carole savagely as she put the phone down, why do I get myself into situations like this? But she hadn’t time to brood, because at that moment there was a ring at her doorbell. She opened it in expectation of a misdirected delivery or a youngman of dubious provenance selling tea towels and oven gloves of equally dubious provenance. The only person in Fethering who would ring the bell of High Tar without pre-arrangement was Jude. And Carole knew Jude was away somewhere that afternoon.

  She was therefore surprised to see Gita Millington standing on her doorstep. This was the new, fully made-up, efficient Gita Millington. Carole was for a moment nonplussed, before ingrained manners asserted themselves and she said, “Oh, how nice to see you, Gita. Won’t you come in?”

  But she didn’t feel comfortable. Gita was Jude’s friend, and Carole had never been in her company without Jude present. Gita on her own in High Tor felt like an obscure invasion of privacy.

  But the atavistic rituals of politeness had to be followed. Coffee was offered and accepted, and nothing more than small talk exchanged until the two of them were sitting over a tray in the sitting room. Carole assumed Gita must have some reason for her call, but behaved as though someone dropping in for coffee unannounced was the most natural thing in the world.

  The coffee-pouring ceremony performed, Gita revealed why she had come round. “Jude’s out this afternoon, but I thought you’d like to know, Carole, that I’ve got some more information on Michael Brewer.”

  Carole certainly did like to know that, but couldn’t totally repress the resentment she still felt at the inclusion of a third person in their investigating team.

  Gita qualified what she’d said. “Well, it’s not information as such that I’ve got, more a source of information. I’ve found someone you could contact to find out more details.”

  Carole liked that a lot better, Gita in her proper position as junior researcher, not as a main investigator.

  “I should have thought of it before, but I got on to Friends Reunited.”

  “Oh?” said Carole blankly.

  “A website service whereby old school friends can track each other down.”

  Carole’s face revealed her distaste for the concept. Her own schooldays had been a time of complex emotions and continuous embarrassment, certainly not a time of her life she wished to revisit. Nor indeed were there any people from school with whom she wished to renew contact.

  “Anyway, Carole, I suddenly realized that Friends Reunited might be the simplest way to make contact with people who were at school with Janine Buckley.”

  And, of course, with Marie Martin – or Marie Coleman, as she would have been then. Carole almost said the name out loud, but then remembered Gita knew nothing of the connection between the Martin family and Michael Brewer.

  “That’s an excellent idea, Gita,” she was forced to concede.

  “I found quite a few contact names, a lot of them still local. Surprising how many of the girls stayed in the Worthing area.”

  “But how did you get into the website? Surely it’s meant only for people who actually were at the school?”

  Gita blushed. “There are ways round that kind of thing. You don’t have to use your own name to log in.” Carole didn’t probe further.

  “Look.” A printout of names was proffered. “Here’s a list of girls who were in the same year as Janine Buckley. All local. A lot are married and have changed their names, but I’ve managed to get phone numbers for all of them.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” said Carole, with something approaching enthusiasm.

  “And look – ” Gita’s finger found a name. “There’s one who lives right here in Fethering. Libby Pearson.”

  “Oh. Goodness…” Carole was instantly besieged by social doubt. What, she wondered, was the correct protocol for ringing someone out of the blue to question them about the murder of a school friend more than thirty years ago? She supposed she could wait till Jude was back. That felt rather wimpish, though. She should seize the opportunity she had been given. But what pretence could be fabricated to justify the initial contact?

  Gita must have identified her dilemma, because she said, “Are you wondering how to break the ice?”

  “Well, it might be rather awkward, you know, just ringing someone up. One ought to have some kind of reason.”

  “Like writing a book about the Janine Buckley case?”

  “That would do it, certainly.” But Carole had never had the ease with tactical lying that Jude had. “The trouble is, I’m not writing a book about the Janine Buckley case.”

  “No.” There was a silence, then Gita Millington said firmly, “But I am.”

  The two women’s eyes met. Carole recognized that Gita was offering her a deal. I’ll make the next stage easier for you – if you include me in your investigation.

  The phone in High Tor rang while Gita was back in Woodside Cottage, touching up her make-up. It was logical, really, that there should be a call from the police. Carole hadn’t followed through the implications, but of course she and Jude had been among the last people to see Barry Painter – known to his friends as Bazza – before his death.

  “I’m Inspector Pollard from Essex Police,” the humourless voice on the phone identified itself. “I’m collaborating on this case with West Sussex, so it is permissible for me to talk to you. Have you had any contact yet from West Sussex Police?”

  Carole said that she hadn’t.

  “Right. I’m sure you will soon. They’re always a bit slow off the mark.” There was a satisfaction in this, some point-scoring in an inter-constabulary rivalry. “I’ve obviously been talking to Marie Martin and her daughter Gaby. I believe you know them?”

  “Gaby is the fiancée of my son Stephen.”

  “Fine. Given what happened to Mr Painter, we are needless to say trying to reconstruct his movements during the last hours of his life. And I believe” – a note of disbelief came into his voice – “that he had a drink in the Crown and Anchor pub in Fethering with you and your friend, Jude something-or-other – I don’t have a record of her surname.”

  “She’s just called Jude,” said Carole loyally.

  For a moment Inspector Pollard seemed about to press for a surname, but decided he had more important questions. “May I ask, Mrs Seddon, how Mr Painter came to be having a drink with you? Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Carole couldn’t keep the instinctive distaste out of her reply.

  “Or of your friend Jude?”

  “No.”

  She wondered why he was asking. He surely must already have got this information from Gaby or Marie or Phil. Was he asking in the hope that she would point up some inconsistencies in their stories? Or that she would show herself to be a liar? She felt on her guard, as though already under suspicion. It was not a pleasant feeling.

  Quickly she ran through the circumstances of how she and Jude had ended up wi
th Bazza in the Crown and Anchor. She had the impression of Inspector Pollard at the other end of the line with a notebook, ticking off points of corroboration. He then asked her to go through the conversation they had shared with the late Mr Painter. She provided as much detail as her memory could offer.

  “This call he had on his mobile phone – you say it was from a friend?”

  “That was the implication. He said it was a business call, and he only did business with his mates.”

  “But he didn’t identify who made the call?”

  “No. I assumed it was Phil Martin. Maybe asking Bazza to organize another car theft just as he had on the night of his father’s death? Maybe organizing the car in which Bazza met his own death?”

  Her conjectures were greeted by a silence. Then Inspector Pollard said magisterially, “Our job is already a difficult one, Mrs Seddon. It is not made easier by members of the public fancying themselves as amateur sleuths.”

  “No, I can see that. But it does seem likely, doesn’t it,” she persisted, “that Phil got Bazza to organize that car for Howard Martin on the night of the engagement party?”

  “I hope you’re not expecting me to make any comment on that suggestion, Mrs Seddon.”

  “Well, it would be nice if you did.”

  She thought that was a reply worthy of Jude, but it didn’t produce any thaw in Inspector Pollard. “Even if I wished to, I would not be at liberty to discuss any details of the case.”

  “No, of course not. Interesting, though, isn’t it” – time for a big stab in the dark – “that Bazza claimed never to have heard of Michael Brewer?”

  “What?” His voice was tight with surprise. “Where have you heard that name, Mrs Seddon?”

  “Oh, come on. Gaby’s my son’s fiancée. She’s told me some of the things you’ve asked her. Also, I was actually with her when she took the call on her mobile from Michael Brewer.”