by Simon Brett
For the first time, Kerry’s defiance gave way to fear. ‘I told them I went to bed.’
‘What time?’
‘I said twelve o’clock.’
‘That was a lie, Kerry. I saw you still in the bar at twelve o’clock. With your father.’
‘Stepfather,’ came the automatic correction.
‘All right. So were you still with him later on? At three o’clock?’
Fear in the girl’s expression gave way to terror. ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘No, I wasn’t with him.’ She looked very flustered. ‘Look, I can’t talk about this now. But please don’t tell the police I wasn’t where I said I was. You won’t, will you?’
Jude had no intention of telling the police, but all she replied was a dubious, ‘Well . . .’
‘Listen, Jude, please don’t tell the police. I’ll tell you the truth. I promise I will. But not now. Not here.’ She picked up a couple of coffee pots. ‘Better take these through.’
‘When are you going to tell me the truth, Kerry?’
‘Tomorrow. Come to my flat in Brighton.’
‘You really have got a flat in Brighton?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘I’m sorry, but you’re only fifteen and . . .’
‘My parents have always encouraged me to be independent,’ she said sniffily. Then she gave Jude the address. ‘I promise I’ll tell you everything then.’
Which was, thought Jude, to put it at its mildest, intriguing.
Her one-to-one with Suzy Longthorne was in an even less glamorous situation: the gentlemen’s toilet, in which one of the wedding guests had thrown up copiously. So extensive was the mess that the curious could have pieced together all the details of Max Townley’s dinner from what was splattered over the tiled floor and walls. But it wasn’t the food that had reacted with the guest’s stomach; it was the excesses of alcohol he had been drinking since noon.
The individual who had caused the chaos had sidled quietly back to his seat and it had been left for the next visitor to the Gents’ to find out and report what had happened. Suzy came through into the kitchen, as Jude and Kerry were piling up plates for the student who did the washing up. The hotelier’s face was grim as she collected mops, buckets and disinfectant.
Jude asked what they were for, and was told.
‘But you shouldn’t have to do that, Suzy.’
‘Everyone else is busy.’ As ever, Suzy betrayed no resentment, just took the practical approach. It was all part of the job she had chosen for herself.
‘I can do it. You’ll ruin your clothes.’
‘We’ll both do it,’ Suzy conceded, as she slipped a nylon overall on top of her designer dress.
So the circumstances weren’t ideal, but it was the first chance Jude had had that day to speak to her friend on her own.
As they mopped and swabbed, trying not to think about what they were doing, trying not to look at the debris or breathe in the noxious smell, Jude asked boldly, ‘Why did you lie to the police about that note, Suzy?’
There was no pretence at incomprehension, just a straight answer – the answer she had given when asked the same question on the phone. ‘Because I didn’t want a murder enquiry at Hopwicke House. The place could have been closed for weeks. I certainly couldn’t have done this wedding today.’
Jude wrinkled her nose grimly. ‘At the moment not doing this wedding seems an attractive option.’
‘I need the money, Jude.’
This prompted a characteristically blunt question. ‘Why? Do you owe a lot?’
‘Yes. I’ve borrowed like mad to keep this place going, but I don’t think I can borrow any more. I need income. Otherwise I’ll have to sell up.’
‘Place must be worth a bit.’
‘I wouldn’t be destitute, no. But by the time I’d paid off my debts, I’d have lost massively on my investment. If I can keep going for a few more months, I’m sure I can turn this round.’ There was a defiant set to her jaw. ‘A few more years and I can sell it as a successful going concern. That’ll be my pension.’
Practical as ever. Even through her years of fame and massive earnings, Suzy Longthorne had always kept a level head about her finances.
‘And you’re sure you can’t borrow any more?’
The auburn hair trembled with a decisive shake of the head.
‘Not even from Bob Hartson?’
The hazel eyes turned on Jude like the beam of a searchlight. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Max mentioned it.’
Suzy nodded, as if she had assumed that to be the case. ‘I’m not denying Bob’s put some money into Hopwicke House. I’d hoped to be able to manage without investors, but that ceased to be possible. Better someone local, someone I know, than an impersonal bank or venture capitalist.’
‘So you do know Bob Hartson well?’
‘He’s an acquaintance, not a friend.’
They had mopped up the vomit, the shreds of vegetable and other indefinable items from the walls and floor. Next they had to swab down the tiling with disinfectant.
After a few moment’s rubbing, Jude asked, ‘So what’s the quid pro quo?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With Bob Hartson. He lends you money. What do you have to do?’
‘I have to pay interest. That’s how money-lending usually works.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘What are you saying, Jude?’
‘I was wondering why you continue to employ Kerry?’
This question seemed to bring Suzy relief, as if she’d been expecting something worse. ‘All right. There was a kind of agreement between Bob and me about that. But it’s short term, just work experience. Soon, even a devoted a stepfather as Bob must realize that the girl has no aptitude for hotel work.’
‘And will he then free her to fulfil her dreams of being a pop idol?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Suzy sharply.
‘I thought that’s what Kerry wanted to be. I thought that’s what all girls of Kerry’s age wanted to be. That or a television presenter.’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, you may be right.’
Again Suzy seemed relieved. What was the worse thing that she was expecting to be asked about? Jude hazarded a guess. ‘And did Bob Hartson also put pressure on you to limit investigation into Nigel Ackford’s death?’
The hotelier was really stung this time. ‘No, he did not! I told you, I did that out of self-preservation. I can’t risk bad publicity for the hotel.’ The hazel eyes once again focused their unforgiving beam. ‘Listen, Jude, you’re a friend. A good friend. But I don’t like the tone of your questioning. I have nothing to hide.’
Jude faced up to her friend. ‘No?’
‘No. Nothing criminal, anyway. We all have personal secrets.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ But Jude couldn’t let it go. ‘Suzy, I’m trying to piece together exactly what happened the night Nigel Ackford died.’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘I’m sorry. I need to. I don’t think he committed suicide, you see. I think someone murdered him.’ There was a silence. ‘Come on, tell the truth – what do you think?’
Suzy’s reply was very measured. ‘I think some things are better left undisturbed. You’ve no idea the can of worms you could be opening up if you continue digging away.’
‘I’m sorry, Suzy. But I care about the truth.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ she snapped back. ‘I care about keeping going, getting through the days. I care about my privacy. If you’d spent a life like mine, you’d give anything for a moment’s anonymity.’
‘I do understand, love,’ said Jude gently. But she still couldn’t leave it. ‘Just answer me one more question . . .’
‘What?’
‘When we were tidying up that night after the Pillars of Sussex dinner, your mobile phone rang. Who was it?’
Suzy Longthorne started to unbutton her overall. ‘I’d better get back to the guests. Would you mind
finishing up in here?’
After Suzy had left, Jude became suddenly aware of the Parmesan vomit smell that surrounded her. She nearly spoiled all their hard work by throwing up herself.
Chapter Sixteen
It was early for the phone to ring on a Sunday morning. Barry Stilwell’s tone was once again conspiratorial. ‘Carole, I need to talk to you.’
She had no reciprocal need to talk to him, but, remembering Jude’s exhortations, put a nuance of coyness into her voice as she said, ‘Really, Barry?’
‘Listen. Pomme’s in the bath . . .’ This is more information than I need to have, thought Carole. ‘So I took the opportunity to call you to see if we could meet again?’
‘Sure we could. At some point,’ she replied lightly.
‘This week. Lunch on Monday.’
‘You’re talking about tomorrow?’
‘Mario’s. You know it. And Mario’s the soul of discretion.’
Objections rose within her. Not only did she find Barry Stilwell repulsive, she was also opposed on principle to extramarital affairs. (Though if Barry had any thought of actually starting an affair with her, he had another think coming.) ‘Are you sure that’d be a good idea?’ she asked, rather stiffly.
‘I think,’ he replied, deepening his voice in the manner of some film star he had once seen, ‘it’s the best idea I’ve had for a long time.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Go on, say yes, Carole.’
She was torn between her instinct, her principles, and what Jude had said to her. Loyalty to her friend won. ‘Very well.’
‘Oh, thank you. You don’t know how happy that’s made me feel.’
If you knew why I’d said yes, you wouldn’t feel happy, thought Carole. But she also felt a little frisson of excitement. Maybe she did have a bit of the Mata Hari in her, after all.
‘Mario’s, one o’clock, tomorrow.’ A sudden panic came into Barry Stilwell’s voice. ‘Pomme’s coming out of the bathroom! See you then.’
And the line went dead.
Later that morning, as she let Gulliver scamper around her on Fethering beach, Carole was once again struck by the incongruity of her situation. She, Carole Seddon, was apparently giving the nod to a married man who wanted to have an affair with her. Even more remarkable, to her way of thinking, there actually was a married man who wanted to have an affair with her. A repulsive one, true, but he did exist. That would have been a surprise to her former colleagues at the Home Office. And maybe to her former husband.
When they got back to High Tor, Gulliver was ecstatic to see their next-door neighbour, who had just rung the front door bell.
Jude wondered if it would be possible to have a lift to Brighton.
Brighton was looking its most beautiful that April Sunday morning. The white sea-facing frontages of hotels and apartment blocks reminded Jude of the previous night’s wedding cake. The usual greeny-beige of the sea had made an effort and was giving a fair approximation to Mediterranean blue. People wandered along the promenade, holding sheaves of Sunday papers, some even anticipating summer in shorts and T-shirts.
Brighton in any season never failed to give Jude’s spirits a lift. Carole was a little more old-fashioned about the place. Her thoughts of Brighton were dominated by newspaper headlines about gays and drugs and drunks and divorcees.
So early in the season and so early in the day, she had no problem parking the Renault on the front. Jude pointed up to a tall white monolith. ‘That’s Kerry’s block. Did your parents present you with a flat like that when you were in your teens?’
‘Certainly not.’ The only exotic thing her parents had given Carole was the ‘e’ at the end of her name.
‘I’d like to say come in with me, but I don’t think I’d better. She might clam up.’
‘No, of course not. I don’t want to come,’ Carole lied. ‘I’ll be fine with the paper.’
She had contemplated bringing Gulliver, but he’d already had a walk, and, besides, he sometimes got over-excited in a strange environment. The smells and sights of Brighton beach might well stir him into a frenzy of Labrador silliness. She’d decided she’d be better off with the Sunday Telegraph.
Jude got out of the car, and then looked back in disbelief at her friend, still sitting bolt-upright in the driving seat. ‘Are you going to read the paper there?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a lovely day. You’re on one of the most beautiful seafronts in the country. I thought you might sit outside.’
‘Yes. I might,’ Carole conceded stiffly.
Kerry Hartson’s flat was certainly splendid. A penthouse with a sitting room that looked out over the sea. Very expensive – and ridiculous, really, to be the home of a girl not yet sixteen. Jude wondered whether Kerry had been given it as a present by her doting parents, or if she had to pay rent. From what she’d heard of Bob Hartson, the answer would depend on the tax position. His stepdaughter might be living in the flat, but it was primarily his investment. So if a nominal rent would avoid paying tax on a gift, Kerry would be paying a nominal rent.
Like the girl’s bedroom at Hopwicke House, the sitting room was very untidy, but not dirty. Jude could not imagine Kerry doing the cleaning herself, so no doubt some poor woman with dodgy immigration status was employed to dust round the detritus. CDs, DVDs and all the other essential acronyms of teenage life lay scattered over the floor, along with crumpled foil takeaway packs, dirty glasses and discarded garments.
Kerry herself was dressed in sloppy grey sweats that could have been nightwear or daywear. The room was stuffy and smelt of sleep. MTV pounded from the large screen in the corner, and the girl made no attempt to mute it as she shoved aside some clothes to make room for Jude on the sofa.
Nor did she offer any refreshment. Though on the surface she was her normal, laid-back, rather sulky self, there was a tension in Kerry that morning. Her invitation to Jude at the hotel may have sounded almost casual, but the girl knew something important was at stake.
First, though, she looked derisorily at the girl band sashaying away on the television. ‘They’re hopeless,’ she volunteered.
‘Are they?’ Jude knew she wasn’t qualified to pass judgement on that kind of music.
‘Yeah. Manufactured,’ Kerry continued knowledgably. ‘Came up through Pop Idol.’
‘Ah?’
‘Telly show,’ the girl elucidated. ‘They haven’t got any real talent.’
‘Unlike you?’
This wasn’t as rude as it sounded. In previous casual conversations Kerry had made no secret of her desire to make it in the pop world.
‘I got a better natural voice than any of them.’ She spoke as if this were an unarguable fact. ‘With all the right grooming – singing lessons, dance classes, designer clothes . . . yeah, I could make it.’
‘Good luck. I hope it happens for you.’
The girl smiled slyly. ‘Oh, I think it will.’
Was this just the confidence of a child whose parents had always told her she was wonderful? Or did she imagine that, like the flat, success in the music business was something her stepfather could buy for her?
Still, they hadn’t met to discuss Kerry’s career prospects. Since beating about the bush had never been Jude’s favourite mode of approach, she moved on to the main agenda. ‘You said you’d tell me what you were doing the night Nigel Ackford died.’
‘Yes. I didn’t see him – Nigel, the one who died – after I left the bar. He was drinking with all the others. That’s the last I saw of him.’
‘It wasn’t his movements I was asking about, Kerry. It was yours.’
The girl was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I went on drinking with my Dad. After the bar closed, he said he’d got a bottle of whisky in his room, so we went on up there.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘No, there was another of Dad’s friends with us.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t remember his name. He was one o
f those Pillars of Sussex.’
‘Of course he was. They all were.’
‘Yes. Anyway, that’s what I was doing.’
The girl seemed relieved, and her eyes strayed back to MTV. She had answered the question; so far as Kerry was concerned, the interview was over.
But Jude hadn’t got enough information. Or rather, she was intrigued by the small amount of information she had been given. If that was all Kerry had to say on the subject, then why hadn’t she answered back at the hotel? They had been alone in the kitchen. There was no one there to overhear or question Kerry’s version of events. So why the mystery? Why had the girl dragged Jude all the way to Brighton for so little?
The only possible explanation must be that consultation had been required. Kerry had wanted to talk to someone before she detailed her whereabouts on the night of Nigel Ackford’s death. And Jude had a pretty good idea of who had been consulted.
As if to confirm her conjecture, at that moment the door to the flat was opened with a key, and Bob Hartson walked in.
Carole was perhaps too protective of her independence. She had an inbuilt resistance to obeying another person’s agenda, even when she knew it made good sense. So, although she did follow Jude’s advice and read her Sunday Telegraph outside the car, perversely she sat in a shelter out of direct sunlight, and with her back to the sea. She therefore saw the Jaguar draw up outside the block opposite, and stay parked on the double yellow lines. She saw the large man get out, but since she’d never met Bob Hartson, had no means of identifying him.
As she allowed the Sunday Telegraph to confirm her right-of-centre views, she occasionally looked up to see the Jaguar still there, its driver playing on a Gameboy. He looked absorbed, content to sit waiting. Presumably that’s what being a chauffeur requires, thought Carole, infinities of patience, and always being at someone else’s beck and call.
She didn’t think it was a job that would suit her.
Bob Hartson’s presence filled the room. He was wearing white chinos and a green polo shirt, tight against his biceps. Though beginning to give way to fat, his body was still deeply muscled, and seemed tense with unspoken threat.
