Carole no longer took Gulliver on her raffle-ticket-selling excursions. The first time she’d thought he might be useful to establish her credentials as an authentic dog lover, but she had not repeated the experiment. The Fethering residents whom Canine Trust directives instructed her to target were, by definition, other dog owners, and Gulliver’s noisy enthusiasm—not to mention combativeness—on greeting their pets had made for slow and uncomfortable progress. Since the first time, therefore, he had remained at home when his mistress went out with her raffle tickets.
Winnie Norton was a dog owner, and presumably therefore a dog lover—assuming she was capable of loving anything other than her daughter. She was the owner of Churchill, whom Jude had encountered at Brigadoon. Carole didn’t really count Yorkshire terriers as dogs. They were too small, too silky, too yappy, a kind of bonsai mutant of what, to her mind, a dog should be.
When she buzzed through on the entryphone, she heard Churchill before she heard his owner. He was yapping, as ever. Then Winnie Norton’s carefully enunciated tones inquired, “Yes, who is it?”
“It’s Carole Seddon. I’ve got the Canine Trust raffle tickets.”
“Oh, splendid. Do come up.” And the entryphone box buzzed admission.
Winnie Norton’s second-floor flat was relatively small, but every item in it was exquisite. Carole knew that if she referred to any piece of furniture or ornament, her hostess would say, “Oh yes, well, when I sold the big house after my husband died, I had to get rid of a lot of beautiful stuff. Phillips auctioned it, and I’ve kept only the best, the very best.” Then she would chuckle and continue, “There are museums all over the world who’d give their eyeteeth for what’s in this room.”
And Carole knew if she referred to the sea view, Winnie Norton would say, “Oh yes, well, you see it best from here on the second floor. The people in the flats below just look out over the Yacht Club, and those above get a much less good angle on the horizon. When I sold the big house after my husband died, I insisted that I had to have the best flat in the block with the best view.” And then she’d chuckle and continue, “I may be slumming, but at least I’ll slum in style.”
That Saturday morning Carole was determined to avoid commenting on either the furniture or the sea view.
When she opened the front door of the flat to let Carole in, Winnie Norton was revealed in a cherry-coloured woollen suit with gold braiding and buttons. Her hair, still bearing a bluish tinge, was fixed like stiff meringue on top of her head. With her spare hand, she held Churchill up to her chest. He was once again yapping furiously.
“There, you lovely boy,” Winnie cooed. “Look who’s come to see you—it’s Carole. Look how pleased to see you he is, Carole.”
The dog’s little eyes glinted a look of pure malevolence at the visitor. Don’t worry, you revolting little mutt, thought Carole, it’s mutual.
“Now, you do have time to stop for a coffee, don’t you, dear?”
It was said defensively, almost challengingly. The last few times Carole had called, she’d managed to wriggle out of staying. This time, however, she gave the right answer.
“Oh, excellent. Now do sit down on the sofa, dear. The kettle’s just boiled. Barbara’s bought me one of those new-fangled cafetieres, so I’m getting quite ‘with it’. But I must confess, it does make delicious coffee. Oh, and I’ll just say the one apology now for that dreadful thumping from the sea wall.”
“Don’t apologize. You can hear it all over Fethering.”
“Yes, but it’s much worse from here. I tell you, I’ve had a splitting headache for days. It keeps going through the night, you know.”
“That’s because of the tides.”
“Huh. I suppose it has to be done. And, in theory, it’s all going to be finished by Monday. Mind you,” said Winnie Norton darkly, “I’ll believe that when it happens. Now, I won’t be a moment getting the coffee. You stay and talk to Carole, there’s a good boy.”
Winnie Norton poured Churchill down on to the carpet and went through to the kitchen. The dog leapt forward towards Carole, then stopped about a yard away from the sofa, his body tensed backwards. He growled.
“Get lost, you little rat!” Carole hissed.
The dog understood the sentiment, if not the words. He started up his high-pitched yapping again.
“Oh, shut up!”
Again she kept her voice down, but this time the injunction had an effect. With a final look of undiluted hatred, Churchill slunk off behind the sofa.
Carole looked out at the sea. Even though she was determined not to say so in Winnie’s presence, the view was undeniably magnificent. She rose and went closer to the picture window. No, from here Winnie couldn’t see the end of the breakwater where the dead man had lain. Because of the Yacht Club building, her view of the low-tide beach started further down.
“Wonderful view, isn’t it?” Carole heard from behind her.
“Mm,” she agreed, as she turned to help Winnie with the coffee tray.
“Oh yes, well, you see it best from here on the second floor. The people in the flats below just look out over the Yacht Club, and those above…”
Damn, out came the whole routine. Winnie Norton didn’t need prompting from anyone else. She was self-priming.
While the familiar words were rehearsed yet again, Carole reflected that her hostess wasn’t acting like someone whose son-in-law had just committed suicide. Maybe she didn’t yet know the news. Maybe Barbara Turribull had kept it from her mother out of kindness until the facts had been confirmed.
Carole was determined to find out. She waited dutifully for the chuckle and the, ‘I may be slumming, but at least I’ll slum in style’, before saying, “I heard a dreadful rumour about Rory in Allinstore this morning.” (She certainly wasn’t going to tell Winnie Norton that she’d heard it in the Crown and Anchor. Everyone in Fethering knew that Carole Seddon wasn’t a ‘pub person’.) “I do hope it’s not true.”
The light that blazed in Winnie Norton’s eye revealed that she knew all the details. And also revealed that she was at least as proficient as her dog at looks of pure malevolence. “It’s true, all right. And absolutely typical of the man! Selfish to the end!”
If Rory Turnbull’s suicide had been an attempt to make people feel guilty and realize how much they’d undervalued him during his lifetime, the gesture had clearly failed with his mother-in-law.
“But it’s definite, is it? I mean, they’ve found the body?”
“No, not yet. The police’re still looking. Typical of Rory again—wasting police time like that. That man’s never thought of anyone but himself from the moment he was born. I always told Barbara he was a dubious factor. Not our class of person at all. I could see that from the day I first met him.
“Barbara is, needless to say, distraught,” Winnie went on. “What a terrible thing to happen to her. And, if it’s confirmed as a suicide, that could well invalidate all the life insurance policies. Selfish, selfish, selfish. What’s more, everyone in Fethering will assume that there was something wrong with their marriage.”
“And wasn’t there?” asked Carole.
“There were faults on his side certainly. The only thing Barbara did wrong in that marriage was choosing an unsuitable man in the first place. But she knows it’s a wife’s duty to stay by her man. She’s discussed her situation with Canon Granger—you know, Roddy—and he has nothing but admiration for the way Barbara has coped. She’s behaved like a saint throughout…in spite of all the dreadful things Rory did.”
“What kind of things?” Carole decided it was going to be quite easy to get the information she was after. Such was the level of spleen Winnie Norton harboured for her son-in-law, the old woman didn’t stop to consider why she was being asked all these questions.
“Well, he was always boorish. Had no manners. Someone brought up in the gutter never quite loses the tang of it, you know. Rory was a product of state education, as you could probably tell. Jumped-up little oik f
rom a secondary modern who managed to scrape into a university and somehow get his dental qualifications. As I said, always a dubious factor. Barbara did all she could to make something of him, but…well, you know the proverb about silk purses and sow’s ears…”
“But what kind of things specifically did Rory do?” Carole persisted. “Was he unfaithful to Barbara?”
“Good heavens, no. Even he wouldn’t have dared do that. No, it was more mental cruelty, I suppose you’d call it. He collected pornography, you know.”
“Did he?”
“Oh yes. Poor darling Barbara found boxes of the stuff when she was looking through their loft. And that was only the part of it.” Winnie Norton shook her head in shocked disapproval. “Rory was up to all kinds of other things as well…”
“Like?”
“Like staying out late. Like getting into fights.”
“Getting into fights?”
“He came back in the small hours only a coupia of months ago and he’d had a tooth knocked out, would you believe? Well, imagine how difficult it was for Barbara to maintain appearances when her husband was walking around looking like a prizefighter. And then there was the drinking…”
“Had he always drunk? Right through their marriage?”
“He’d always had it in him,” Winnie Norton replied portentously. “But it was only the last few months it’d got out of hand. And it wasn’t just drink…”
“What do you mean?”
“Drugs.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes.” The old lady nodded vigorously. While she did so, her sculpted hair made no independent movement. “Barbara had suspected something of the kind was going on, and I found some stuff in Rory’s study.”
In other circumstances Carole might have asked what Winnie Norton was doing snooping round her son-in-law’s study, but she didn’t want to stop the flow.
Winnie seemed to anticipate the thought anyway. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been looking into his affairs, but I couldn’t go on seeing my daughter suffer like that. So I took things into my own hands, and I found…this stuff.”
“What kind of stuff? Are you an expert on drugs?”
“Of course I’m not!” Winnie Norton snapped. “But I watch television. There’s hardly a drama on these days that doesn’t show people taking drugs. So I recognized it when I saw it. In Rory’s desk drawer I found a syringe, and some metal foil, and a little packet of white powder. I think he was spending all their money on drugs.”
There were a lot of follow-up questions she could have asked, but Carole decided to bide her time until she’d talked to Jude. She’d already been given more than she had dared hope for.
“Well, I’m distressed to hear all that, Winnie,” she said blandly. “Do give my condolences to Barbara, won’t you?”
If she’d thought this traditional formality would be met by an equally formal response, she was disappointed.
“Condolences!” Winnie Norton spat out the word. “Barbara doesn’t need condolences. She needs congratulations. Twenty-eight years of misery and now finally she’s shot of him.”
“Yes,” said Carole. “Of course. Now, about these raffle tickets…”
“The Canine Trust, yes, yes, yes.” Winnie rose with surprising agility from her chair. “Just get my chequebook.” She crossed to a writing desk decorated with intricate marquetry designs. “This is a charming piece, isn’t it? You see, when I sold the big house after my husband died, I had to get rid of a lot of beautiful stuff. Phillips auctioned it, and I’ve kept only the best, the very best.” She chuckled, then continued, “There are museums all over the world who’d give their eye-teeth for what’s in this room.”
Carole smiled graciously. Churchill emerged from behind the sofa and started yapping at her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
As she’d mentioned, Jude had done some acting in her time. She’d done a lot of things in her time. Hers had been a rich and varied life.
On the Saturday morning, while Carole went off to do her bit with Winnie Norton, Jude decided she’d have to call on her acting skills to further her own research. She rang through to J. T. Carpets. Even if no carpet-fitting went on at the weekend, the showroom was bound to be open. And there must be someone working in the office.
There was. Jude put on a voice of excruciating gentility (school of Barbara Turribull) and went into her prepared spiel. “Good morning. I’m trying to contact one of your carpet-fitters. Named Dylan.”
“I’m sorry. The fitters don’t work at the weekend.”
“Well, could you give me his home address and phone number?” she demanded imperiously.
“I’m afraid it’s not company policy to give out our employees’ private details over the telephone.”
“Then in this case you must make an exception to company policy. My name is Mrs Grant-Edwards.” Jude was taking a risk that the girl in the office had never spoken directly to the real Mrs Grant-Edwards. And perhaps less of a risk in assuming that the real Mrs Grant-Edwards would talk the way she was talking. “I live in a house called Bali-Hai on the Shorelands Estate, where your people have just been fitting a carpet.”
“Oh yes?”
“And one of the fitters was this young man called Dylan.”
“You haven’t found anything missing, have you?”
The anxiety in her voice was a real giveaway. Clearly Dylan didn’t have a reputation as the most trustworthy of employees. Jude wondered how many little pilferings had occurred in the houses where he had fitted carpets. And wondered how much longer he would keep his job.
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s rather the reverse. I’ve found something of his in the house.”
“What?”
Jude had thought long and hard what her cover story should be. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with a complaint about Dylan. Inventing some domestic crisis was too risky; his employers were bound to know more about his family circumstances than she did. What was needed was something urgent, but unthreatening, something that would sound as though Mrs Grant-Edwards was actually doing him a good turn. Jude felt pleased with the solution she’d finally come up with.
“It’s a wallet containing his credit cards. And since he hasn’t come back to our house looking, I assume he doesn’t know where he left it. Well, I know how tiresome it can be to lose one’s credit cards. It happened to me last year and caused an awful kerfuffle. So I just wanted to ring him to put his mind at rest.”
The approach worked with the girl at J. T. Carpets. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs Grant-Edwards.”
“If we don’t all help each other out in this life, what will become of us?”
“What indeed? Right, just a moment. I’ll find Dylan’s home number for you.”
The girl gave it. Jude had asked for his address too, but she couldn’t justify pressing for that. Her cover story didn’t require her knowing where he lived. So she just thanked the girl for her help and put the phone down.
The number had a Worthing code, which meant it was local, and the first two digits were the same as Jude’s own, which meant it was very local. Dylan probably lived in Fethering. But whether with his family, a girlfriend or on his own she had no means of knowing.
The next call was going to need a change of persona and she had to get it right. Jude made herself a cup of peppermint tea while she focused on the role she was about to play. In spite of her floaty dress style, Jude was far from being a superannuated hippy, but she had met plenty of the breed. Indeed, during the time she’d lived on Majorca, people who didn’t know her well might have reckoned her as one of their number. Most of her acquaintances from that period of her life had long since settled into the worlds of domesticity and employment, often as school-teachers or in the social services. They remained harmless idealists, benignly ineffectual, posing no threat to society at any level. True, they did break the law on a regular basis, but the one they broke Jude didn’t think should be a law anyway.
She concentrat
ed on getting the voice right. Laid-back, lazy, full of trailing vowels, that was it. And she’d use her mobile phone, so that the precise location she was calling from wouldn’t be revealed if Dylan checked 1471.
She waited till half-past eleven, which she reckoned gave a lad-about-Fethering—assuming that’s what Dylan was—time to wake up after the excesses of Friday night, and keyed in his number. She was in luck. He was at home.
“Hi.” He managed to invest the single syllable with insolence and menace.
“Is that Dylan?” Jude got exactly the right relaxed diffidence into her voice.
“Yeah. Who wants him?”
“I was given your name by someone. I want to get hold of some gear.”
“What kind of gear?”
“Pot.” She knew that’s what most users of her generation would still call it. “Cannabis.”
Dylan laughed harshly. “So you’re after some weed, eh? And what makes you think I might be able to help you?”
“I told you. A friend gave me your name.”
“I think you’d better tell me who the friend is. Otherwise I might suspect this is some kind of set-up.”
Jude took the risk. If Dylan didn’t bite, then she knew she’d have lost him. She backed her hunch. “Rory Turnbull.”
The silence lasted so long she thought she must’ve miscalculated. Then Dylan repeated, “Rory Turribull, eh? Our fine upstanding dentist?”
He didn’t mention the fine upstanding dentist’s recent disappearance. Which was good news, because it almost definitely meant he didn’t know about it. When he did, he’d be on his guard, knowing the inevitability of police investigations into all aspects of Rory Turnbull’s life.
“Yes. He said he was a customer of yours.”
“Not much of a customer. He bought very little from me. Just a bit of weed on a couple of occasions.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t carry the stuff he was after.”
“He wanted hard drugs?”
“Yes. Smack. I gave him the name of a contact in Brighton and didn’t hear from him again. So I guess that’s where he took his business.”
Fethering 01 (2000) - The Body on the Beach Page 16
