by Simon Brett
Michael Brewer had the air of a man whose plans were nearing completion.
Grand’mère was not pleased to see them again. She might have been happy at another visit from her granddaughter, but not bringing this other woman, this inquisitive other woman, with her.
Jude was too concerned about Carole’s safety to be over-sensitive to the old lady’s feelings. “I’m sorry, this is important. A friend of mine is in danger, and you may have the information that could save her.”
“I do not understand this. Why do you wish me to –?”
“Don’t worry about the ‘why’? Just answer my question.”
“But this is very ill-mannered. Pascale, will you let this woman talk to your grandmother in such a way?”
“Please, Grand’mère. As Jude says, it is very important.”
The old lady still looked put out, but said grudgingly, “Very well. What is it you wish to know?”
“It goes back to something you said when you were talking about your husband going shooting with Michael Brewer – ”
“Oh no. Why are we always back to this Michael Brewer? It was a terrible time for me and my family. As Robert said, you should not be bringing such memories back to me.”
“Please, Madame Coleman. Please. Just think back to that time once more.”
“Please, Grand’mère.”
“Oh very well.”
“You said that, when your husband went out shooting at night-time with Mick Brewer, they used to drink.”
“Yes. I told you this.”
“You mentioned that Mick ‘always had drink stashed away on the estate’.”
“Yes, but this was thirty years ago. Why is it now so important?”
“Just take my word for it, it is. Did you mean that there was a place on the estate where your husband and Mick Brewer used to go to drink.”
“I believe there was. From what my husband said, Mick Brewer had a secret place, somewhere that his employers did not know about, where he kept a supply of drink, where he could hide for a few hours if he felt like it. I believe also – ” Madame Coleman’s thin lips set in a moue of disapproval – “that Mick Brewer also sometimes took girls there.”
“And did your husband ever say where the place was? Did it have a name?”
The permed head shook with the effort of recollection. “No, I don’t think…or was there a name? It is so long ago that…Oh, the name was strange, I remember that. Something to do with illness or…It had to do with – Oh.”
“Yes. Leper. Leper’s something – Leper’s Copse. Yes, that was the name. Leper’s Copse.”
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Thirty-Seven
In the hire car outside the home, Jude rang the number Inspector Pollard had given her. She tried again and again, but it was resolutely engaged.
“Don’t worry.” Gaby took out her mobile. “Pollard said Uncle Robert was working with the West Sussex police. I’ll see if I can get through to him.”
She called a number from the phone’s memory. “Uncle Robert, hi. It’s Gaby. No, I’m fine. Listen, we’ve been talking to Grand’mère, and she may have given us a lead on where to look for Michael Brewer. It’s something she remembered from ages ago when Grandpa used to go shooting with him. I think it’s somewhere on the estate – or near the estate where Michael Brewer used to work. And it’s called Leper’s Copse’.”
She listened to her uncle’s response, said goodbye and turned to Jude, her eyes gleaming. “I think we’re nearly there. Robert’s going to check with the local police. If anyone knows Leper’s Copse, or if it’s on any map of the area, then I think everything’s going to be all right.”
There is a finite time that one can stay at a pitch of total panic, and Carole had found she was, if not relaxing in the cellar, at least occasionally thinking of subjects other than her own imminent demise. It was after six in the evening. Another night of enforced proximity to the murderer approached. Then, the next day, Gaby and Jude would be back. That would be the time of danger, when Michael Brewer required something of her. Until then, in spite of her discomfort, frustration and sheer boredom, Carole reckoned she would be relatively safe.
He had left the cellar again, on another unexplained mission. He took the mobile phone with him. If he was going to use it, Carole deduced, then it must be to call someone who represented no threat. The police, she knew, had means of pinpointing the exact location from which a mobile call had been made. Which must mean that Michael Brewer had some friends out there, at least one person who he knew would not betray him.
Because she was on her own, and bored, Carole felt empowered to check out her enforced environment. She looked at the laptop first. A sudden spark of hope glowed within her. Maybe he’d linked it up to the internet. Maybe she could send out an email for help.
But such optimism was soon crushed. Even with her limited knowledge of computers, Carole knew that an internet connection required a phone line of some kind. Maybe he could hook the laptop up to his mobile, but he had that with him. And, anyway, she had to admit to herself, she’d never sent an email in her life. She wished she hadn’t been such a Luddite when it came to new technology.
She tried summoning something up to the laptop’s screen, but it remained blank. A password was needed to access Michael Brewer’s computer files.
But his other files – the cardboard ones in the plastic boxes – there was nothing to stop her from accessing those.
For a moment she was assailed by middle-class doubt. After all, the files were his private stuff. She shouldn’t really be snooping at the personal documents of Carole quickly realized the stupidity of that knee-jerk reaction; after the way Michael Brewer had treated her, she owed him nothing. She picked up a cardboard folder and opened it.
The contents were computer printouts, newspaper cuttings and handwritten notes. From a quick glance it was clear that all the material related to the murder of Janine Buckley.
Carole heard the scrape of the rafters above, and went quickly to replace the file in its box. Too quickly. In her haste she dislodged the whole box from its shelf. Files and their contents scattered over the cellar floor.
Carole looked up guiltily towards the oncoming torch beam.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Michael Brewer harshly. “Have you been looking at that lot?”
In his hand was the gun, and in his eye a look of murderous intent.
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Thirty-Eight
“Time you moved,” said Michael Brewer. He stepped back into the outside world. Even though dappled through the trees, the early evening June light dazzled Carole as she climbed the steps out of the cellar.
“Get in the car.”
“No, I don’t want – ”
“Get in the car!” His voice snapped out like a whip-crack. The gun was still following her every movement.
Trembling, she inched towards the Renault, which had not been moved since she left it the previous evening. Instinctively, she went towards the driver’s door. But was that right? The bodies of the other strangled victims had been found on the back seats.
It seemed ridiculous even to be thinking of such niceties, but Carole found herself asking, “Do you want me to sit in the back or the front?”
Michael Brewer opened his mouth, but the reply never came. Suddenly he hurtled forward, as a body burst through the trees and cannoned into his back.
The gun went flying. As Brewer scrabbled forwardto recapture it, the other man leapt on to his back. With huge relief, Carole recognized the white hair of Robert Coleman.
“I’ve got you now, Mick,” he shouted. “Give yourself up. The police are on their way!”
Brewer was the bigger man. And the stronger. He’d kept himself in shape – perhaps he’d had to keep himself in shape – in prison, and kept tough during the past few weeks of living rough. He lifted himself off the ground, and turned around at speed, shaking off the li
ghter Robert Coleman, who crashed to the ground.
Ignoring the gun, Brewer pounced on his winded opponent. Grabbing hold of his lapels, he dragged the man up off the ground. But Robert was not completely out of commission, and managed to thump a punch into Brewer’s midriff.
The taller man recoiled, but did not lose his grip. “You bastard, Robert!” he gasped. “Don’t worry, though, now you’re going to get what’s coming to you!”
Keeping one hand tight on the lapel, he drew the other one back for a punch, but Robert was quick enough to butt his head hard forward. He was too short to catch Brewer’s chin, but the thud into the base of the throat made the man choke and release the jacket.
Surprised by his sudden freedom, Robert Coleman swayed, and at that moment Michael Brewer’s bunched fist caught him hard on the mouth. He flew backwards into the undergrowth. Brewer moved forward to tower over him.
Carole Seddon had never hit anyone over the head with a gun before, but since she had picked the thing up, she thought she might as well have a go. She’d never have a better opportunity – or a more important one. Holding the gun’s barrel tightly, she reached upwards, and brought the butt crashing down on to the back of Michael Brewer’s neck.
The effect was very satisfying. He tottered for a moment, then crumpled to the ground, emitting a sound like the air being forced out of a paper bag, and lay immobile.
“Thank you very much, Carole,” said Robert Coleman through his bleeding lips. “You really helped me out there.”
“My pleasure.” She waved the gun ineffectually in her hand. “I’m afraid I’m not used to handling these.”
“No reason why you should be. I’ll take it.”
She handed the weapon across, and looked down at the recumbent figure of the ex-prisoner. “So what do we do with him? Wait till the police arrive?”
“We could do that,” said Robert Coleman, “but we might have a long wait.”
“What do you mean? What are you going to do with him then?”
“I think he might suffer an accident. Get caught in the blaze when he torches your car.”
“What are you talking about? Why would he want to torch my car?”
“He wouldn’t. But to the police that would look like what he’d been trying to do.”
“But, Robert, why should my car be torched?”
“Because it will have your body in the back of it, Carole. Strangled. Just like all the others.”
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Thirty-Nine
The shock was so great that Carole could hardly get her thoughts together. “You mean the police aren’t coming?” she asked feebly.
“No. I was told where to look for him, and it was expected I would pass that information on to the police. And I will. But not yet. I’m afraid the police will arrive here in Leper’s Copse too late to find evidence of the last act of Mick Brewer’s murderous career.”
“So you killed Howard?”
“Had to. He was going to meet up with Mick. I couldn’t risk Howard hearing what Mick had to tell him.”
“And it was you who set up the car to take Howard from the hotel?”
“Phil did it, actually. But I knew Bazza would do what I told him. He owed me a few favours for the lenient treatment I’d arranged for him when he came up before me as a magistrate. But, once I knew the police were after him – well, he’d become a security risk.”
“A security risk who conveniently came down to Fethering to see you?”
“Yes, disposing of him was easy. Bazza would always do exactly what I told him.”
“And that business of the DNA link to Michael Brewer – you left the playing cards at the crime scene?”
“Of course. A pack of his I’d had since before he was arrested for Janine Buckley’s murder.”
“So what about that murder?”
“What about it?”
“Did you do that too?”
Robert Coleman smiled a crooked smile. But it wasn’t just his bruised lips that made it crooked, and triumphant. “You’d never find any proof linking me to that. Whereas there was lots of proof linking Mick. Fingerprints on the stolen car, fingerprints on the petrol can.”
“How did you arrange for that to happen, Robert?”
“It’s amazing what people will do when they aren’t on their guard. I stole the car, having previously fixed to meet Mick. Siphoned out a lot of fuel, so that it ran out. Got Mick to fill it up from the can in the boot. Then took him off to get drunk, just the two of us, back at his place. I put something in his drink, so he was soon out cold. Then I spilled a bit of petrol on his clothes, and left him. I was the only alibi he had – he thought I’d stayed with him overnight, but no, I’d left about nine. I’d already arranged another alibi for myself for the rest of the evening, so when the police questioned Mick, it sounded like he was lying. Anyway, he was too drunk and drugged to have a very clear recollection of that night.”
“Then you picked up Janine Buckley, drove into the estate where Mick Brewer worked, strangled her and torched the car?”
He shrugged. “It had to be done. Maman would not have survived the shame.”
“What shame? Oh, my God.”
“Are you saying that the baby Janine Buckley was carrying was not Michael Brewer’s? It was yours?”
His cocksure silence was quite as articulate as a spoken confirmation.
“So that night – the party at your parents’ house in 1973, when Janine Buckley and Michael Brewer went upstairs, when you were supposed to be with Diana Milton…”
“Sorry about that. I couldn’t resist it when you mentioned Diana Milton at lunch at my club. I saw a chance of putting you off the scent. If I was screwing Diana all night, there was no way I could have been with Janine.”
“So it was you and Janine who were the couple?”
“One couple.”
“What do you mean?” The realization came to Carole like a thunderclap. “Marie and Michael Brewer? Michael Brewer is Gaby’s father.”
Robert Coleman didn’t confirm this either, but Carole knew she had hit on the truth. All kinds of potential ramifications spread from this one revelation, but she wasn’t really in a position at that time to pursue them through to their logical conclusions.
“But why, Robert? Why did you do all this?”
“To protect Maman. She was so frail emotionally, and her Catholic faith was so strong. She could not have coped with the knowledge that I had got a girl pregnant. She could certainly not have coped with the knowledge that Marie was pregnant. Maman had very high standards.”
“You mean she couldn’t have condoned an unwanted pregnancy, but she would have condoned murder?”
“Of course not.” He was shocked by the suggestion. “She never knew about the murder, or never knew of any family involvement in it. Whereas there was no way she could have remained ignorant of the pregnancy.”
“Or the two pregnancies. It was your idea that Howard Martin should marry Marie?”
“Yes. He wanted that more than anything, so he was happy. To me the marriage seemed a good way of covering up her lapse. Everything was confused round that time, with my father dying and Maman having her breakdown. I was afraid Marie might have a breakdown too, so I told her that she would be safe with Howard. They married quickly, and moved away to Worcester. Then I encouraged them to announce that Gabs had been born prematurely. It all made sense.”
“But did your killing Janine Buckley also make sense?”
“Of course. I was about to start my career in the police force. The last thing I needed at that stage of my life was a woman and child in tow.”
He spoke with the logic of the criminal. Anything was justified, so long as it served his ultimate purpose.
“But how did you get Marie to agree to marry Howard?”
“She was in shock after Janine’s death. And,” he said with the confidence of an arch-manipulator, “Marie has always done what I told her to.”
> Carole began to understand the full scale of the trauma which had changed Marie from the bright and lively schoolgirl to the frightened neurotic of her later life.
“So did Marie know that you killed her friend? And that you had framed the father of her child for the murder?”
Robert Coleman smiled another irritatingly complacent smile. “Marie has always been very good at shutting certain things out of her mind. And I have always seen it as my duty to protect her from the…nasty things of life.”
The strength of Robert Coleman’s control over his sister was becoming clear. Marie might even have worked out that it was he who had killed her husband. But that was one of the areas where she would not have allowed her mind to go.
“Just as you always protected your mother from the unpleasantnesses of life.”
“Yes. I could never have done anything to upset Maman.”
“Or never have allowed her to know about things that might upset her?”
“Precisely.” He smiled again, then said abruptly, “Still, enough of this. I’m afraid it’s time to stage Michael Brewer’s final murder. Sorry you’ve got involved, Carole – though it is, it has to be said, completely your own fault. If you and your chubby friend had not stuck your noses into other people’s business, then your quiet little life in Fethering could have continued uninterrupted. But, as it is, I’m afraid you have got involved, and there’s no way I can allow you to live to tell the tale.”
Carole made a sudden dash for the entrance to the copse, but it was pathetic how short a distance she had travelled before Robert brought her down in a rugby tackle. “No. Sorry. You’re not going to get away.”
Trying another escape seemed pointless. She looked hopefully at Michael Brewer’s prone form. He was breathing, but showed no sign of consciousness. My own bloody fault, thought Carole savagely. Why did I have to hit him so hard?
“Do you have a petrol can in the car? I have my own supplies, but…”
