Death on the Downs

by Simon Brett

  ‘I wouldn’t know if that’s the case with the Lutteridges. We’ve never met. But a friend of mine who knows them says the girl hasn’t been seen for four months.’

  ‘Well, at least the Weldisham gossips will have to change their tune now. We’ve issued a press statement about everything we know so far. Be on the local news this evening, I should think. Anytime then the phones’ll start ringing.’

  ‘With people who think they can identify the dead woman?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Seddon. We’ll get every poor sad bastard in the country who’s lost someone. Mass media are great, all that Crimewatch stuff, encouraging the public to ring in, but it does infinitely increase the loony count.’ He looked momentarily abashed. ‘Sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘It’s all right, Sergeant. I know exactly what you mean.’

  Baylis grinned and ruffled the loose skin of the head of Gulliver, who had by now fallen heavily in love with him.

  ‘Incidentally,’ Carole went on, reckoning she’d never get a better opportunity to satisfy her curiosity about the life of Weldisham, ‘the woman who owns Heron Cottage . . .’

  ‘Pauline Helling. What about her?’

  ‘Nothing. Well, nothing serious. It’s just . . . I haven’t even met her properly, just come across her a couple of times, but on both occasions she’s made me feel extremely unwelcome in the village.’

  Baylis chuckled. ‘Don’t take it personally. She makes everyone feel unwelcome in the village – even the people who live there.’

  ‘My car got left outside Heron Cottage overnight when you and I went to the pub.’

  ‘And I bet you got one of Pauline’s little notes on your windscreen?’

  Carole nodded.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to have had that treatment, nor the last. It’s a nuisance, I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t meaning it was a police matter. I just wondered why she was so antisocial.’

  ‘You should raise the question next time you’re in the Hare and Hounds, and I’m sure you’ll get as many answers as there are people present.’

  ‘And what would your answer be, Sergeant?’

  ‘As to why Pauline’s such a bad-tempered old bat? My answer would be a rather old-fashioned one, in these supposedly classless times. I think Pauline’s “living above her station”. She grew up poor, in a council house on the Downside Estate—’

  ‘In Fethering?’

  ‘That’s right. Then her husband left her with a son to bring up. I think that’s when she developed both the chip on her shoulder and her ambitions to be upwardly mobile. As a result, the minute she got some money, she bought Heron Cottage. The good folks of Weldisham didn’t like that. People of Pauline Helling’s sort, they reckoned, should know their place. They’d be the same with me too. Because my old man worked on the Estate. And I didn’t go to private school.’ He couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice. ‘Not that it worries me,’ he went on, once again disclaiming a hurt that he clearly still felt. ‘The new people come to the village, saying that they want to get close to the old rural England, but they don’t want any reminders of the people who used to live in that old rural England. And the prices get pushed up so high, none of the former residents can afford to live in these villages anyway. So that’s why Pauline Helling makes everyone feel unwelcome in Weldisham – because she’s always been made to feel unwelcome there herself.’

  ‘How did she get her money?’ asked Carole.

  ‘They didn’t like that either. If you live in Weldisham, it’s all right to get money from stocks and shares, or inherit it from Mummeigh and Daddeigh . . .’ Baylis’s jokey manner could not disguise the deep bitterness with which he was speaking. ‘But Pauline Helling got her money from winning the pools! The pools! Weldisham reckons it’s bad form even to know what a pools coupon is, and actually to win on one . . . well, that’s the height of vulgarity. So from day one they’d got Pauline marked down as “common”.’

  ‘Were people rude to her?’

  ‘Not insulting to her face, no. Not like they would be somewhere a bit more honest. In Weldisham you freeze people out with politeness. You smile when you meet them, you give them a nod, but you never invite them into your house.’

  Carole grinned wryly. She’d encountered some of that aloofness in Fethering.

  ‘So I would imagine,’ Detective Sergeant Baylis concluded, ‘that for the past twenty years the only person Pauline Helling has talked to is her son.’

  ‘He’s still around?’

  ‘Brian? Oh yes, he’s still around.’ The sergeant spoke as if this was not an entirely satisfactory state of affairs.

  ‘He isn’t a writer, is he?’ asked Carole, with sudden insight.

  ‘He calls himself a writer, though there doesn’t seem to be much evidence that he’s ever actually written anything.’

  ‘I think I overheard him in the Hare and Hounds yesterday.’

  ‘It’s quite possible. Hard not to overhear Brian. He’s always been of the view that everyone within earshot should have the benefit of his conversation. He was like that at school. I was in the same class as him. Nasty sneaky little bastard then, and I don’t think the passage of the years has changed him that much.’

  ‘What kind of nasty?’

  ‘Vicious to other kids. And to animals. Most people who grow up round here know how to treat animals. They’re not sentimental about them, but they don’t hurt them deliberately.’

  ‘And Brian Helling did?’

  ‘When he was a kid, yes. Killed a couple of cats in a way I still can’t forgive him for. He thought it was a game. The rest of us didn’t play that kind of game.’

  ‘Oh?’ Carole put her next remark as sensitively as she could. ‘In the Hare and Hounds he did seem to be . . . a little eccentric.’

  ‘Eccentric’s generous. He’s a self-appointed eccentric, just as he’s a self-appointed writer. Brian Helling has never been able to hold down a proper job. If his mother hadn’t had the pools money to support him, God knows what he’d have lived on. He’s always been getting into trouble of one sort or another.’

  ‘Trouble that’s involved the police?’

  ‘Not often. Occasionally drunk. Reckless driving once, I think.’

  ‘What about drugs?’

  A shadow of caution crossed the sergeant’s face. ‘I’m fairly sure he dabbles in drugs, but he’s never been convicted for it. No, he’s not into anything that you’d call major-league criminal. Brian’s always been a bloody nuisance, though – just like he was at school. Always trying to join everyone else’s gang – and nobody wanted anything to do with him, because he was . . . I don’t know . . . creepy.’

  ‘In the Hare and Hounds yesterday,’ said Carole, ‘he was talking about the possibility of there being a serial killer in Weldisham.’

  ‘Was he?’ Detective Sergeant Baylis turned very pale. ‘Was he really?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘The bones weren’t Tamsin Lutteridge’s!’ Carole and Jude spoke the words simultaneously.

  Baylis had gone and Carole had hurried to answer the doorbell’s summons, hoping it was Jude. She was dying to share her news. And amazed that Jude had the same news to impart.

  ‘What do you mean? Come in. It’s cold.’

  ‘What do you mean? How do you know it’s not Tamsin?’

  ‘Just had Detective Sergeant Baylis round. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  They went through into the sitting room and Carole quickly brought her friend up to date with what Baylis had said about the bones. ‘I should have realized at the time. When I think about it, the bones looked old. Older than four months, anyway.’

  ‘You weren’t to know. You’re not a pathologist. And there are all kinds of factors that can affect how quickly a body decomposes . . . whether it’s left in water . . . if scavengers can get at it . . .’

  ‘Maybe. I still think
I should have known.’ Carole had never enjoyed looking stupid – or, perhaps more accurately, thinking she looked stupid. ‘Anyway, Jude, how did you find out they weren’t Tamsin’s bones.’

  ‘Because I’m pretty certain Tamsin’s still alive.’ And she gave an edited version of her morning’s visit to Sandalls Manor.

  ‘Do you think she’s being kept there against her will?’

  ‘No, I’m sure her stay is entirely voluntary.’

  ‘But you hear of these cases of young women getting caught up in cults . . . You know, falling under the spell of some guru and—’

  ‘Carole!’ Jude sounded uncharacteristically annoyed. ‘This is nothing to do with a cult. It makes me really angry when people lump every alternative lifestyle in together. We’re not talking about some crazed religious zealot here; we’re talking about a psychotherapist with legitimate qualifications.’

  ‘But from your tone of voice, it doesn’t sound as though you like him very much.’

  ‘I may not like him, and I may not like some of the things he does, but that doesn’t stop me respecting him as a healer. Charles Hilton has had a great deal of success with bringing people back to health, both emotional and physical.’

  Carole suspected that her friend was protesting a little too much in her respect for the therapist, but she didn’t mention it. ‘If Tamsin is up at Sandalls Manor, undergoing legitimate treatment, then why did he deny she was there?’

  ‘Maybe he was respecting her wishes. If a patient asks for confidentiality, it’s a therapist’s duty to provide it.’

  ‘But she’s only a child. And her parents are so worried.’

  ‘Tamsin’s twenty-four years old. Quite old enough to make her own decisions. And I think it’s only one of her parents who’s worried.’ Jude stood up with sudden resolve. ‘Anyway, I’m about to find out.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘I’m going to pay another visit to Gillie Lutteridge.’

  Jude accepted the offer of a lift up to Weldisham, but didn’t respond to the unspoken request for them to do the interview together. Carole knew she shouldn’t even have had the thought – Jude had Gillie Lutteridge’s trust and they had discussed Tamsin’s illness together – but, in spite of herself, Carole was getting excited about the case and didn’t want to be excluded from any part of the investigation. However, she didn’t raise the issue when she dropped Jude outside the Lutteridges’ irreproachable house.

  ‘Give me an hour,’ said Jude. She looked up at the sky. It was only four, but already nearly dark. ‘Don’t know what you’ll do.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Carole, unwilling to appear resource-less. ‘I’ve got time to make a quick raid on Sainsbury’s.’

  ‘OK. Then we can maybe go to the pub and see where we’ve got to – if anywhere.’

  ‘The Hare and Hounds?’

  ‘I was thinking the Crown and Anchor.’

  For some reason, Carole didn’t object to that idea.

  Gillie Lutteridge looked once again as if the cellophane had just been removed from her package. This time she was wearing a burgundy chenille waistcoat over a cream silk shirt and black linen trousers, which, like every other pair she possessed, defied creasing. Flat black shoes with a little burgundy bow across the front.

  Jude had phoned ahead, so she was expected. Before Gillie even had time to offer tea, she asked, ‘Have you heard from the police about the bones?’

  ‘Yes. I think they must have known earlier that they couldn’t have been Tamsin’s. It can’t have been definite when Detective Sergeant Baylis came to see us, or he’d have said. But I suppose they didn’t know about the rumours in the village, so they had no idea what we’d been thinking.’

  ‘Miles must have been very relieved.’

  ‘He’s totally transformed. You cannot believe the difference between knowing your daughter’s missing and thinking that she’s dead. Now would you like some tea?’

  Jude ignored the question and looked piercingly at Tamsin’s mother. ‘You, on the other hand, Gillie, don’t look totally transformed.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You look exactly the same as you did yesterday.’

  ‘Yes. Well, one has to keep up some kind of front, however much one’s hurting inside.’

  ‘What I’m saying, Gillie, is that I think you’ve known all along that Tamsin’s alive.’

  The shock in Gillie Lutteridge’s face took a moment to establish itself. ‘How could I?’

  ‘Easily, if you were in touch with her.’ Before the denial could come, Jude pressed on. ‘I’ve been at Sandalls Manor this morning.’

  ‘Ah.’ The surrender was immediate. Gillie Lutteridge did not try to argue.

  ‘By chance a letter in your handwriting arrived. Addressed to Tamsin.’

  ‘Did you see her?’ The question was full of maternal eagerness, desperate for any news of her daughter.

  ‘Charles Hilton said she wasn’t there.’

  Gillie nodded, partly resigned, partly relieved. ‘We’d agreed that. I was afraid that Miles might find out, and Tamsin . . . Well, she didn’t want anyone to know she was there either.’

  ‘Because she was ashamed of her illness?’

  ‘No. She just . . . she said she wanted to vanish off the face of the earth for a while.’

  ‘That’s a rather strange thing to say.’ Gillie shrugged. ‘You don’t think she meant she was suicidal?’

  ‘No, Jude! Certainly not!’ The girl’s mother was appalled by the suggestion. ‘Tamsin’s got a bit depressed while she’s been ill, but she’s never thought like that. All she wants to do is get better, so that she can get back to her normal life. She’d never do anything to harm herself.’

  ‘Good. So Charles is curing her, is he?’

  ‘I hope to God he is, yes. She’s having long sessions with him, and doing an exercise routine, and she’s on a special diet. She has been getting better.’

  ‘Has she?’

  ‘Yes. Last week she was much stronger. She even came here.’

  ‘What did Miles say?’

  ‘He was away on business. Otherwise she wouldn’t have come. Even then, she came in a taxi, after dark, so no one would see her. We just wanted to find out if she could cope.’

  ‘And could she?’

  The perfectly coiffed head drooped. ‘No. Next morning she had gone right back. She seemed worse than ever. No energy, terribly jumpy and depressed. She didn’t want to stay here a minute longer than necessary, went straight back to Sandalls Manor. That’s what’s so cruel about this wretched illness. Tamsin can go a day or two with hardly any symptoms at all, and then, just when she starts to make plans for the future, it comes back again.’

  ‘But, in spite of that relapse, you still think Charles can cure her?’

  ‘I’m praying that he can.’ She read in Jude’s face a scepticism that wasn’t there. ‘We’ve tried everything else! We’ve tried doctor after doctor. Tamsin’s been in hospital for every test known to man. She’s been prescribed vitamin supplements, tonics, antidepressant after anti-depressant. Nothing has made her any better. Nothing has brought back her energy. Charles Hilton offers an alternative possibility. I’d say it was worth trying.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course it is. Presumably the course will take quite a long time?’

  ‘Chronic fatigue syndrome is a complex illness. There are no quick fixes.’

  ‘I know. But I dare say one-to-one therapy with Charles Hilton doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘I can afford it,’ said Gillie defiantly. ‘I got some money of my own when my mother died.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jude nodded her blonde head. ‘I see.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘You’re using money of your own. You and Tamsin have agreed to this cloak of secrecy so that Miles doesn’t find out.’

  ‘Is that so odd? You’ve heard him on the subject of alternative therapists. Miles doesn’t even believe Tamsin’s illness exists. Just imagine what he’d make of someone lik
e Charles Hilton.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jude understood completely. ‘But, Gillie . . . what I can’t understand . . . when the rumours in the village started about the bones being Tamsin’s . . . when you could see how much pain Miles was suffering . . . you could have set his mind at rest with just a few words . . . and you didn’t. You could have told him you knew that Tamsin was still alive.’

  ‘But then he’d have wanted to know how I knew. He’d have tracked her down, and destroyed her last chance of getting better!’

  ‘Are you sure he would, Gillie? Couldn’t you have talked to him about it?’

  ‘No. I can’t talk to Miles. I can’t talk to Miles about anything.’

  And, without the slightest tremor of her body, Gillie Lutteridge began to weep. Tears spilled and coursed down her cheeks, destroying the perfection of her make-up and spotting the immaculate collar of her silk blouse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They watched the local news in Jude’s cluttered sitting room. Although they’d already arranged to go to the Crown and Anchor, each had a glass of white wine in their hand. To Carole that seemed like the height of decadence. She also couldn’t help stroking the new jumper she’d put on when she’d nipped back into High Tor to feed Gulliver. It was only Marks & Spencer’s, but there was a bit of cashmere in the weave. And it was Cambridge Blue, a colour bolder than most in Carole’s sartorial spectrum.

  Jude’s television was still a tiny portable perched on a pile of wine crates. And it still required a hearty thump before the snow on the screen resolved into pictures. Carole wondered why her neighbour hadn’t replaced the set for something more modern. Could it be that Jude hadn’t got the money to do so? One of the old gnawing questions reasserted itself. What did Jude live on? And how did she spend the majority of her time when she wasn’t with Carole? Come to that, where had she been for the past few weeks? And with whom?

  Carole realized she’d let the obvious cues for that last question slip past her. Well, never mind, that could still be remedied. She’d ask Jude straight: Where have you been the last fortnight? Such a direct question couldn’t be evaded.