by Simon Brett
Carole was affronted. ‘We’re basing it on what you told me. You said that Fennel was so positive on the night she’s supposed to have killed herself that she couldn’t possibly have done it.’
‘Yes . . .’ Jude looked uncharacteristically dubious. ‘But now I’m beginning to wonder about that. I told you what Detective Inspector Hodgkinson said about depressives often doing it when their mood begins to lift.’
‘You did.’
‘The trouble is, Fennel would fit that profile exactly. She’d been through a really bad depression. Bawling Denzil Willoughby out had lifted her out of it. In a more positive mood she says to herself, well, I’m never going to go through that again, she laces a bottle of wine with liquid paracetamol, she secretes a knife from the kitchen, she . . .’ Jude’s open-handed gesture showed that she didn’t need to complete the sentence.
‘Is that really what you think?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Jude, are you saying you really think Fennel Whittaker committed suicide?’ A silence. ‘Or do you think she was murdered?’
There was another silence before Jude conceded, ‘I think she was murdered.’
‘And what do you base that conclusion on?’
Jude replied apologetically, ‘Instinct.’
‘Well, that’s good enough for me.’
The following day, the Wednesday, Carole was surprised to get an email from Chervil Whittaker, inviting her to attend the launch of Walden. ‘Since you’ve expressed interest in making a booking, we thought you might like to have a look at the facilities on offer.’
Of course, she was delighted and had no hesitation in accepting. Jude was going to be there and Carole would much rather share the occasion than rely on a report from her neighbour. And any opportunity to snoop round the environs of Butterwyke House could only be helpful in their ongoing investigation.
But the invitation still sounded a strange chord with her. After all, she had already had ‘a look at the facilities on offer.’ Chervil Whittaker herself had shown Carole and Jude round the weekend before last. Surely the girl would have remembered that. She had registered that they’d already met when they’d spoken on the telephone about the potential Walden booking.
Carole got the uneasy feeling that, however much she was keen to snoop on Chervil Whittaker, the girl was at least as keen to snoop on her.
SEVENTEEN
The weather couldn’t have been better for the press launch of Walden on the Saturday. A perfect West Sussex early-May day, not a cloud in the sky, the Downs rolling opulently to the north, and the other way the glint of the English Channel. Maybe perfect weather was just another luxury service laid on by Gale Mostyn.
They certainly seemed to have arranged everything else with exemplary efficiency. Their greatest achievement – given how loath local reporters usually are to attend any function, least of all at a weekend – was the number of press representatives they had managed to drum up. There were some very young ones, presumably working on local papers, who looked tentative and nervous, perhaps wondering how much longer there would be any local papers for them to work on. But there were also some older, hard-bitten-looking journalists from the nationals, with matching older, hard-bitten-looking photographers.
It was soon obvious to Carole and Jude that the press hadn’t just come to look at yurts, however well appointed they might be. They had come for the famous faces.
Clearly Gale Mostyn had pulled out all the stops for the launch. A few of the famous faces were familiar to Carole, though she couldn’t put names to them. Jude recognized more and, chatting to other people (how was it she always started so easily chatting to other people, Carole wondered plaintively for the millionth time), managed to get the identities of the others. Though Walden hadn’t justified the appearance of any A-list celebrities, those who had turned up were definitely towards the beginning of the alphabet and would deserve inclusion in most of the national gossip columns.
They included, Carole was informed, a lingerie model who had just dumped a Premiership footballer after tabloid ‘love rat’ allegations, a singer predicted to go Top Hundred on iTunes within the next week, a stand-up comic who had recently become the voice of a smoothie-maker in a new ad campaign, and a girl from Rochdale whose dance act with her Siamese cat was tipped to win a major television talent show. It may not have been the Great and Good of West Sussex, but then the Great and Good of West Sussex wouldn’t even have got the local newspapers to turn out at a weekend. Gale Mostyn had, however, produced a guest list to set contemporary journalists slavering.
And there was one person there whom even Carole Seddon recognized. Sam Torino. Well over six foot tall, leggy, long black hair, hazel eyes with glints of green in them. Canadian by birth, international model, former lover of a good few of rock’s royalty, she was present with the three children born of her three most famous liaisons. She and they were dressed in the kind of casual wear which looked wonderful on them, but which would never look the same on ordinary people who bought the identical garments.
Sam Torino was a woman with a Teflon reputation. Affairs, marriages and divorces came and went, but her serenity seemed undiminished. In spite of her jet-set lifestyle, she had a core of domestic ordinariness which earned her the respect of the wives whose husbands fancied her, both in her adopted British home and in the States, where she still frequently flew for her most lucrative fashion shoots. To have got Sam Torino to Chervil Whittaker’s launch, Gale Mostyn must have had considerable muscle.
And it soon became clear that she wasn’t just there for the Saturday. She and her family were tasting the Walden experience to the full, staying overnight in one of the yurts, and going to be photographed over breakfast the following morning. The column inches for Butterwyke House’s new venture would be gratifyingly long. Carole and Jude wondered whether Sam Torino had been lined up for the previous weekend and then agreed to the postponement following Fennel’s death. Somehow they thought not. They got the impression Chervil and Giles had been telling the truth and the initiative for the launch had been conceived within the last few days.
The one person who wasn’t present that afternoon was Ned Whittaker. His wife Sheena was there, more relaxed than Carole and Jude had seen her before, drinking and chatting cheerfully with anyone and everyone. Carole thought her husband’s absence was odd. Jude, who knew the depth of Ned’s grief over his daughter’s death, was less surprised. To both of them Sheena’s apparent insouciance seemed in the circumstances bizarre.
The whole of the Walden site was en fête for the occasion. Bunting hung from the trees and, rather incongruously, a maypole stood one side of the central area, with a bonfire on the other. The yurts themselves were garlanded with coloured cloth and their doorways hung with bright curtains. Every viewpoint offered a photo opportunity.
And the assembled paparazzi were not wasting those opportunities. Smartly-suited girls from Gale Mostyn, looking impossibly cool in the warm sunshine, choreographed the photographs, lining up the assembled celebrities in one setting after another, all the time working in close consultation with Chervil Whittaker and Giles Green. Meanwhile black-trousered waitresses moved among the guests with trays of champagne, Pimm’s and fruit juices.
Sam Torino and her family had their own minder who organized the photos they were required for. Dressed in an oatmeal-coloured linen suit with an open-necked blue shirt, he was introduced to Carole and Jude as Nigel Mostyn. Clearly Sam Torino’s stature required the personal attentions of one of Gale Mostyn’s partners.
A lifetime’s modelling had given her grace and patience. She made no fuss as the photographers posed and reposed her; and the less-experienced ones from the local papers seemed to need a lot of reposing. If any of her children showed signs of boredom or restlessness, she reprimanded them in a manner that was old-fashioned almost to the point of being schoolmarmish.
To her surprise, Carole was having a rather good time. Because she would later be driving her Renau
lt back to Fethering, she had determined at the beginning of the afternoon to restrict herself to one drink, but the first Pimm’s weakened her resolve and she allowed her glass to be refilled from the ever-circulating jug. Despite inevitable misgivings before the event, she enjoyed having no responsibility. She could just melt into the background and observe what was going on, hoping – though with small expectation of fulfilment – to pick up some small clue that might help her solve the mystery of Fennel Whittaker’s death.
For Jude the situation was different. She had been invited to the launch in her professional capacity and, as the various minor celebrities were photographed with various alternative therapists, she felt a growing sense of awkwardness. The lingerie model who had just dumped a Premiership footballer after tabloid ‘love rat’ allegations was led into the treatment room to be shot revealing a lot of flesh while she underwent a mock-up of a hot stone massage. The stand-up comic who had recently become the voice of a smoothie-maker in a new ad campaign was posed by an acupuncture chart with needles stuck in his nose. Jude felt uncharacteristically ill at ease.
The moment came. Chervil approached her, together with one of the smoothly suited Gale Mostyn girls. ‘I wonder, Jude, whether you’d be up to a photograph with Shaylene?’
‘Shaylene?’
‘She’s the girl from Rochdale who’s got this fantastic dance act with her Siamese cat.’
‘And what do you want me to be doing with her?’
Chervil Whittaker looked nonplussed. ‘Well, healing, obviously.’
‘Healing isn’t a very photogenic subject, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, can you be sort of waving your hands around or something? I was hoping Shaylene would be able to bring Gin Seng with her.’
‘Gin Seng is nothing to do with the kind of healing I do.’
‘Gin Seng is the name of her cat. But since they’ve got famous, Gin Seng’s insurers have got very strict about how much he can travel around with Shaylene.’
‘I’m sorry, Chervil,’ said Jude firmly, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t be photographed healing. It wouldn’t be real, unless I was actually doing the healing. And if I was doing it, I certainly wouldn’t be being photographed.’
Carole, standing nearby, was mildly surprised. Her neighbour was usually up for most things. But now Jude was showing the kind of reticence that would have been more characteristic of Carole herself.
‘Oh,’ said Chervil, puzzled by not getting her own way.
Rescue for Jude came in an unexpected form. ‘You can’t photograph someone healing,’ announced a warm Canadian voice.
It was Sam Torino who had overheard their conversation as she passed from one photo opportunity to another.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Chervil.
‘It trivializes the whole thing,’ said Sam Torino, putting into words exactly what Jude had been feeling.
Chervil Whittaker backed down immediately and moved off to get the singer predicted to go Top Hundred on iTunes within the next week to take up some positions with the Hatha yoga instructor.
‘Thank you for that,’ said Jude to her rescuer.
Sam Torino shrugged. ‘No problem. So many people just don’t get healing. They think it’s some kind of conjuring trick.’
‘Have you had some yourself?’
‘Yes, a good few times.’ The famous hazel eyes looked into Jude’s brown ones. ‘I get the feeling you’re a good healer.’
The line needed no explanation; their contact was instinctive. ‘Thank you,’ said Jude.
‘I have a problem,’ Sam Torino confided. ‘Would you be able to take a look at it?’
‘For the cameras?’
‘Of course not. For me. Would you mind staying a bit when all this hoopla’s over?
Jude agreed.
Wandering round Walden, taking everything in and feeling atypically mellow after her third glass of Pimm’s, Carole found herself with Sheena Whittaker and suddenly realized that she hadn’t expressed condolences to the bereaved mother. She made up for lost time, stammering out appropriate platitudes.
But she was surprised to be cut short in her sentiments. ‘We don’t need to talk about that today,’ said Sheena quite sharply.
‘I’m sorry. I just thought—’
‘Fennel was headstrong. She always went her own way. And she was always drawing attention to herself too. I know this is not something that a mother should say about her daughter, but in many ways my life will be simpler without Fennel in it.’
Carole Seddon was profoundly shocked. For two reasons. First, because Jude hadn’t told her what Ned had said about his wife’s reaction to their daughter’s death. And, second, because of the transformation in Sheena Whittaker’s manner. Gone was the tentative insecurity Carole had noted on their previous meeting. It was as if the absence of Fennel had literally lifted a burden from her mother’s shoulders.
So marked was the change that, for a moment, Carole even wondered whether Sheena Whittaker might have had a hand in arranging the outcome which was clearly such a relief to her. It was not impossible.
EIGHTEEN
‘Are you sure this is all right? There isn’t something else you should be doing?’
‘It’s fine and dandy, Jude,’ said Sam Torino. ‘They got their pound of flesh. I’ve done all they asked me to. I’ve earned a little “Me Time”.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘They’re fine. They’re toasting marshmallows over the bonfire with Katya.’
‘Katya?’
‘One of their nannies.’
‘Oh. Right. You said you had a problem . . .?’
They were in one of the side rooms of the treatment yurt with the door firmly closed. Even though everything had been meticulously cleaned and the white tiles gleamed, Jude could not quite remove from her memory the image of the space spattered with Fennel Whittaker’s blood.
Sam Torino, incapable of looking less than elegant in any posture, draped her long limbs across the treatment couch. ‘It’s a back thing. I always swore I’d never turn into one of those old women who had backs, and Lordy, Lordy, it’s caught up with me. Maybe growing old is just a process of becoming all the things one swore one’d never be.’
‘You’re not old,’ said Jude.
‘I am too.’
‘You still look stunning.’
‘Maybe. But if you knew how much longer it takes me to look stunning these days . . .’ She laughed grimly. ‘As I say, it’s a back thing.’
‘Caused by any particular injury?’
‘I don’t think the last divorce helped.’
‘But no physical injury?’
‘Not that I know of. Mind you, I grew up in the School of Hard Knocks. So it could be any one of those knocks that started the thing off.’
‘How long have you had the pain?’
‘Since the last divorce.’
‘Really?’
Sam Torino nodded. Close to, Jude could see the fine tracery of lines around her eyes. The model had been right. She’d always be beautiful, but time was beginning to fray away at her perfect outline.
‘Lie down on the couch and let’s have a look.’
‘Sure.’ Sam swivelled round to lie on her back. ‘Do you want me to take anything off?’ After a lifetime of backstage changing at catwalk shows, she had no coyness about removing her clothes.
‘Just the shoes for the time being.’
Sam Torino slipped off what looked like Converse Hi Top trainers (though a discerning fashionista would have recognized them as being by a far more exclusive designer). Like all her clothes, they appeared to have been put on the first time that day.
‘Could you just lie down on your front?’ Sam obeyed. ‘Just get comfortable. From what you said, you’ve used healers before.’
‘Sure. I’ll try anything. Anything that helps.’
‘And did the healing help?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When you said you’d had the pain sinc
e your last divorce, was that a joke?’
‘No, I had the pain before the divorce, but then I divorced him.’ She stopped herself. ‘Sorry, I suffer from Reactive Wisecrack Syndrome. When I’m nervous I make dreadful jokes.’
‘Are you nervous now? You don’t look it.’
‘One thing you learn with a career like mine . . . Whatever you’re feeling, don’t look it.’
‘Well, you’re succeeding. Nobody would know you’re nervous.’
‘I am too.’
‘So why are you nervous now?’
‘Because if you’re anything like a decent healer – and I get the feeling you are – then you aren’t just going to be checking out my body, you’re going to be looking inside my soul. And I’ve got a lot of clutter down there in my soul, and some of it’s clutter I’m ashamed of.’
Jude nodded. What Sam Torino was saying to her didn’t seem strange at all. With an inward smile, she thanked the Lord that Carole wasn’t in the yurt with them at that moment.
‘OK, Sam, just relax. I’m just going to check where the pain is.’ Jude ran her hands expertly along the contours of the woman’s body. No contact was actually made with the designer clothes, her fingers hovered a couple of inches above the famous contours. They kept being drawn back to one source of heat.
‘That’s where the pain is, isn’t it?’ pronounced Jude, lightly touching a spot just above Sam’s right buttock.
‘Hey, you’re good,’ said the model. ‘Got it in one. Any idea how to get rid of the sonofabitch?’
‘I can try.’ Jude focused her energy on to the troublesome area. ‘So you say this started at the time of the divorce?’
‘In the run-up to it, yeah.’
‘You know why, don’t you?’
‘Do I? You tell me.’
‘It’s because you’re Sam Torino. Everyone who meets you gets the full Sam Torino experience, regardless of whether you’re feeling very Sam Torino or not.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You know what I mean. You never give yourself a break, Sam.’
