by Simon Brett
‘No. Well, as I say, she’s very inconsistent, but I’d spoken to her when I got back from Paris on Friday evening.’
Jude couldn’t stop herself from remembering jealously that he hadn’t found time to ring her the same evening. God, she was pathetic.
‘Anyway, I was feeling really positive and I said it was daft for us to go on doing nothing about the house and we really ought to sell it. And Jonquil actually agreed with me. She was very calm and rational and she said she couldn’t imagine why we hadn’t put the house on the market years ago.’
‘Any particular reason why she had changed her mind?’
‘She’s got a new chap.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘No idea. When we were living down here, in quite a lot of cases I did know who her men were, because they were people in our circle. Since she’s moved to Brighton, I’ve no idea who she consorts with.’
‘But if she’s now in a good relationship, then maybe that’ll take the pressure off you, and she’ll finally get out of your life . . .?’
‘Jude, I’ve been here before. Many times. With Jonquil every new relationship is going to be The Big Thing. And so it is for a few weeks, months sometimes, years in my case . . . and then she starts getting unsettled and jealous . . . and pretty soon she’s off with someone else. It’s a recurring pattern with her, one that I’m afraid never gets broken.’
‘So why did she appear at the house on Saturday?’
‘Because she’d changed her mind. Whatever she’d said on the Friday evening, on the Saturday she no longer wanted to sell the house. She could have told me on the phone but, being Jonquil, no, of course she had to do it in person. She knew I’d be there, so she decided to give me the latest in a long, long line of shocks.’ He sounded infinitely weary. ‘The fact that she found you there when she arrived was . . . I don’t know, whatever the opposite of “serendipity” is. Shit, probably.’
‘And what did she say after I’d left?’
‘Basically that she’d never agree to our selling the house. And a whole lot of other stuff.’
‘Like?’
‘Old stuff, infinitely recycled recriminations. Believe me, Jude, you really don’t want to know.’
She really did want to know, but there’d be time enough in the future to ask those questions. Jude rose from her draped armchair, went across the room and kissed Piers gently on the forehead.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘how about a drink?’
‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’ said Piers Targett drowsily, after their emotional rapprochement had been followed by a physical rapprochement. He turned over in the bed and looked down at Jude. Her blonde hair was spread in beautiful disarray over the pillow.
‘Tell me,’ she murmured.
‘I’m going to fix for you to have a real tennis lesson with George Hazlitt.’
‘Really? Do you think you should?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I wonder if I put a jinx on that tennis court. Remember what happened last time I went there.’
‘Hm.’ He was silent for a moment, reminded of his old friend’s death. ‘Incidentally, Reggie’s funeral is on Thursday.’
‘Yes, I heard from Oenone.’
‘Jude . . .’
‘Hm?’
‘I’d very much like it if you would come with me to the funeral. I think it’s going to be an emotional strain for me. I’d feel better if you were there.’
‘Well, if that’s what you want I’d be very glad to come.’ But even in the peacefulness of love the small idea formed in her mind that she would see a lot of the Lockleigh House tennis court members at the funeral and might be able to advance her investigation a little.
‘Anyway, this lesson of yours with George. I’ll set it up and let you know when.’
‘All right,’ said Jude softly. ‘Though I don’t think I’ll ever understand that business of chases . . .’
‘It’s very simple,’ Piers protested. ‘The chase lines are marked in yards parallel with the back wall both ends of the court. If the ball lands nearer the back wall than the chase, you say it’s better than whatever number the chase is. If it lands further away from the back wall you say it’s worse than the . . .’
Jude was already asleep.
TWENTY
As Donna Grodsky had suggested, Carole didn’t have any difficulty in finding information about Iain Holland online. He had his own website and there were lots of reports about him from local newspapers. He could also be contacted or followed through LinkedIn, Facebook and Twitter, though these were not avenues she was likely to go down. The day that someone as secretive and paranoid as Carole Seddon might expose secrets of her life to all and sundry over the Internet was the day when hell had not only frozen over but was also hosting the Winter Olympics.
It was clear from all the references that Iain Holland was a Conservative local councillor for one of the Brighton wards. It was also clear that he was an expert at self-promotion. From the amount of events he managed to attend and be photographed at, he must have handed over the day-to-day running of his stationery empire to managers. Fêtes, prize-givings, openings of new buildings, protests, demonstrations, hundredth-birthday cake-cuttings in old people’s home, Iain Holland’s smiling face was seen at all of them.
And his CV was everywhere. The story of how he had been educated through the state system, with the help of long after-school hours spent in his local library: how he’d rejected the possibility of university because he ‘wanted to get straight into the business of making a living’; how he’d borrowed from his parents to buy a stationery shop that was about to go belly-up; how by dint of sheer hard work and entrepreneurial flair he’d built up that business and gradually added others until he was in charge of one of the country’s most recognizable stationery brands.
His devotion as a family man was also stressed. Any photo opportunity that could include his wife and two children was seized upon. It was because of Iain Holland’s respect for ‘old-fashioned family values’ that he had naturally gravitated towards the Conservative Party. He had ‘been lucky’ in his own business career, and it was now his ambition to ‘iron out the inequalities in our society and improve the lot of those to whom life had been less generous.’
There was no doubt that the personality of Iain Holland combined the best qualities of Jesus Christ, Mother Theresa and Margaret Thatcher.
Of his first marriage there was no mention. Susan and Marina had been completely airbrushed out of Iain Holland’s history.
Carole Seddon was thoughtful. There was certainly not going to be a problem contacting her quarry. His website seemed to be crying out for everyone in the world to get in touch with his saintly figure. They had only to do that for their problems to be at an end . . . assuming, that is, that their problems concerned his particular ward in Brighton. But the implication in all his self-aggrandizing self-advertisement was that local politics for Iain Holland would only be a stepping stone to greater things. He was on the right committees within the Conservative national organization. He was a coming man. It appeared to be only a matter of time before he would be standing for some constituency as a prospective MP.
This information – or rather implied information – prompted two thoughts in Carole. One, that Iain Holland had a lot to lose if anything were to come out that might tarnish his squeaky-clean image. And two, that he would be aware of that and would guard himself against indiscretions, being careful about whom he had contact with. If she was going to take the obvious next step in her investigation, she was going to have to be very circumspect.
Her approach to Iain Holland needed a lot of thought. Gulliver was delighted to get the bonus of another walk on Fethering while his mistress worked through her problem.
Jude felt a little nervous when Piers dropped her from the E-Type at Lockleigh House tennis court on the Wednesday morning. Not about their relationship. They’d done a lot of talking on the Tuesday when they
’d had a Fethering day, walking on the beach, having lunch at the Crown and Anchor, dinner at the local Chinese. It felt more like being a couple and, if anything, their rift over the weekend and subsequent making up had strengthened the feelings they shared.
Piers had even talked about how he made his money, which was chiefly by investing in small companies in Britain and the rest of Europe (hence his trip to Paris). His early career had been in PR. He’d built up his own agency and sold it, clearly for a great deal of money, some five years previously.
He talked about Jonquil’s financial affairs too. She had inherited a substantial amount when her parents died, which was why the half-share she’d get from the sale of the Goffham house wasn’t of great importance to her.
So when Piers had airily told Jude that on the Wednesday he had to go up to London for ‘various meetings, boring money stuff, wouldn’t interest you’, she was unsuspicious and didn’t feel the need to ask for any more detail. They were beginning to recognize the areas of their lives that would overlap and the ones that wouldn’t.
But Piers was keen that real tennis should be one of the things that they shared. Which was why he’d set up the lesson with George Hazlitt for Jude that Wednesday morning.
And it was the prospect of that that was making her feel nervous.
Piers had booked the ten fifteen court for her lesson and because of the timing of his London meetings had left her at the court with about half an hour to spare. He had lent her one of his rackets, which lay across her kit and towel in the African straw basket. As she let herself in through the small door to Lockleigh House, Jude looked up at the main building. Above the portico was a window that she reckoned must belong to Cecil Wardock’s room. She imagined the old man sitting in there, rereading all the books to which he had devoted his working life.
As Jude entered the court and walked past the pros’ office, George Hazlitt looked up from sewing yet another tennis ball to greet her. He glanced at his watch. ‘Morning. In good time.’
‘Want to get myself in the right frame of mind,’ said Jude.
‘Good idea.’ He grinned. ‘You know where the changing rooms are?’
‘Sure.’
‘And do you know about the etiquette of when you can walk down there?’
‘Wait until the players on court change ends.’
‘Very good.’
‘Piers gave me very specific instructions on that.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Though he still hasn’t managed to explain satisfactorily to me why they change ends.’
‘Don’t worry. All will be clear by the end of your lesson.’
Jude went through the door into the court and waited in the proper manner at the end of the walkway that ran along the length of it. She recognized the player at the other end as Ned Jackson, the junior professional, but the wall prevented her from seeing his opponent. What she didn’t recognize was the game they were playing. Her experience of watching the Sec’s Cup and the Old Boys’ doubles had not prepared her for the speed and power of a high-class singles match. Ned seemed to anticipate every return, taking a few small steps to position himself, plucking the ball out of the air with his racket and redirecting it with incredible accuracy. One of his balls came rocketing straight towards her and she was glad of the netting that stopped its progress. As the shot hit home, a hanging bell rang and Jude congratulated herself on remembering that the ball had found the winning gallery.
‘Forty-thirty,’ said Ned Jackson. ‘Chase better than two.’
Still for no reason that made any sense to Jude, this was apparently the signal for the two players to change ends. While they did so, she made her way towards the club room. She could now see Ned’s opponent, whom she didn’t recognize but he, like the junior professional, looked supremely fit, without a spare ounce of fat on him anywhere.
When she was changed into her over-tight shorts, white cheesecloth shirt, socks and trainers, she sat in the dedans, clutching the racket Piers had lent her, and watched more of the young men’s game. She was again impressed, not only by their athleticism, but by their retrieval skills. From anywhere in the court, even the lowest and tightest corners, they seemed able to pick the ball out and return it with interest. She came to realize that real tennis was a serious sport, not just a leisure activity for old fogies. Also the vowels of Ned Jackson’s opponent suggested that it wasn’t just a game for toffs either.
During one of her marriages Jude had played quite a lot of lawn tennis. Not at a very competitive level, it had been purely social, but she wondered how much of it would come back to her when she stepped out on to the court. She also wondered, the longer she watched the young men play, how much use anything she remembered from her old skills might be. Real tennis really was a very different game from ‘lawners’.
It was ten past ten. Ned and his opponent had got to five-all in what appeared to be the deciding set, so Jude was reckoning either she’d have to wait for her lesson or the young men wouldn’t finish their game. From her experience of lawn tennis, she knew that the winner of a set had to be two games clear. But then at forty-thirty ahead, Ned Jackson sent another shot zinging into the winning gallery and his opponent capitulated. He slumped forward and shouted, ‘Lovely shot!’
‘Thanks!’
‘Should help get your handicap down.’
‘That’s the aim of the exercise.’
The two young men clasped hands across the net. ‘You’re on fire today, Ned,’ said the vanquished one. ‘Is that because you’re going to see Tonya tonight? Another of your “love-all” assignations?’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ the junior professional replied enigmatically.
‘You dirty dog,’ said his opponent and they both roared with laughter.
Just as Carole Seddon would not in a million years have gone near LinkedIn, Facebook or Twitter, she was also very circumspect about her email address. Her name did not appear in it; instead she used her house ‘High Tor’ with a combination of numbers that had featured in her staff ID when she worked for the Home Office. This precaution might have seemed excessive, given that most of her email communication was with Stephen and Gaby, but, when it came to approaching Iain Holland, Carole was glad of her anonymity.
She had run through a lot of ideas on Fethering Beach the previous day, but it was not until the Wednesday morning that she had decided on the wording that would go into her email to the contact box on the local councillor’s website.
The message read simply: ‘I am interested in the whereabouts of your daughter Marina Holland. If you are also interested, get back to me.’
Carole was aware of the ambiguities in her words. They implied greater knowledge than she had. And the word ‘whereabouts’ might suggest an unsubstantiated belief that Marina Holland was still alive. Carole was taking a risk, but reckoned that risk was worthwhile. The worst that could happen – and indeed the most likely thing to happen – was that Iain Holland would ignore her email and send no reply. But there was the distant possibility that her message might provoke a response.
Carole Seddon took a deep breath and clicked on the ‘send’ button.
TWENTY-ONE
When Jude’s lesson started and they were standing at the net by the entrance to the court, the first thing she asked the track-suited George Hazlitt was about the scoring. ‘In real tennis,’ he explained, ‘it’s different from lawn tennis. You only need to be one game ahead to win the set. Get to six-five and you’ve won it.’
‘Any other differences?’
‘Well, you still go fifteen – thirty – forty – game, like in lawn tennis. But you call the score of the person who’s won the last point first.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Jude, whose hope that there couldn’t be any further perversity in the rules of real tennis had just been disappointed.
‘Well, you see, Jude, in lawn tennis the players take the service in alternate games. In real tennis the service can change any number of time
s in a single game.’
‘So that’s what happens when they change ends?’
‘Exactly.’ George Hazlitt nodded encouragingly.
Now for the big one. ‘But why do they change ends?’
‘Ah well, this is to do with chases.’
Jude raised her hands in horror. ‘Please, not chases. Piers has tried to explain chases to me more times that I care to remember and—’
‘Don’t worry.’ The pro grinned. ‘Forget about chases. We’ll come to that later. Let’s start with just the basics – hitting the ball.’ He reached down to a circular recess in the court floor and picked up the basket full of balls that nestled there. ‘Look, I’ll go down the service end – that’s where the dedans is – and you go down the hazard end and I’ll just send a few balls down to you and see how you go. You say you have played a bit of lawn tennis?’
‘Not for a long time.’
‘Well, the first thing you’re going to notice is that the bounce of a real tennis ball is very different.’ He picked one out of the basket and slammed it down with considerable force on to the stone floor of the court. It bounced up about his shoulder height. ‘See? Now if I’d done that to a lawn tennis ball, it would have shot up into the air, way over my head. So you’re going to get much less bounce and you’re going to have to bend down really low to reach a real tennis ball. Let’s try some. As usual, doing it is much more useful than talking about it.’
They took up their positions. ‘Stand about a couple of yards in front of the back wall, in the middle,’ George Hazlitt shouted down the court, ‘and I’ll send a few down.’
He had the basket of balls on the floor beside him, picked a couple out and sent the first one fluently down the centre of the court. Jude swung Piers’ racket over it and missed by about a foot.
‘And another one.’ The pro’s second ball followed exactly the same trajectory. Jude’s stroke was about six inches too high for that one.
