by Brett, Simon
“So you two got any news, have you?”
“Well . . .” Carole scoured her memory, without much optimism that she’d find anything interesting there. Then suddenly remembered. “Actually, my son’s getting married.”
“Fancy,” said Ted.
“You didn’t tell me that,” said Jude.
“I’ve hardly had a chance to get a word in.”
“True. Sorry.”
“I keep forgetting you got a son.” Ted scratched his chin through the thatch of beard. “Forget you’d been married, and all. Still, we divorcees have to stick together, don’t we?”
Carole didn’t like that. Her marriage was a private failure. She didn’t like having it lumped together with all the other broken relationships.
“What’s your potential daughter-in-law like?” asked Jude.
“I haven’t met her yet.”
“But you must have got an impression from what Stephen said.”
Carole had. Her son’s fiancée engendered an impression of someone she wouldn’t get on with. Someone whose agency had had a financial package set up for it, who had rich parents who were possibly not even British. Someone who had the rather affected name of Gaby. Of course she didn’t say any of that. She knew it was just prejudice. But then Carole, like most middle-class English people, had ingested prejudice with her mother’s milk.
“Not really. Her name’s Gaby.”
She tried to keep disapproval out of her voice, which was just as well, because Jude said, “Gaby. That’s a nice name.”
“She’ll probably talk your head off.” In response to curious looks, Ted explained, “Gaby by name, gabby by nature.”
Yes, it was a blessing for everyone, really, that he’d not continued with the stand-up.
“Anyway, I’m going to meet her soon,” said Carole, with what she hoped sounded like enthusiasm. “Weekend after this.”
“It’s very exciting,” said Jude. “The prospect of grandchildren.”
That was the consequence of the marriage about which Carole hadn’t allowed herself to think. In spite of Stephen’s talking about buying a large family house, she had not followed the logic through. Grandchildren—they would provide another opportunity for her maternal skills to be found wanting. It was all daunting—and very confusing.
She was relieved that when they’d sat down, having ordered Ted Crisp’s recommendation of Dover sole, the conversation reverted to the events at Hopwicke Country House Hotel. A suspicious death was always so much more interesting than wedding plans.
“I’ve a feeling there’s a kind of cover-up,” said Jude.
“Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?”
“I got the firm impression from Detective Inspector Goodchild that he’d be very happy with a suicide verdict.”
“From what you say, the death did look like suicide. And presumably the police like things nice and straightforward.”
“Yes . . . I got the feeling there was more to it, though. That Detective Inspector Goodchild had been talked to by someone . . . that someone didn’t want the investigation to go any further.”
“What makes you say that? Do you have any evidence?”
“No.” The idea was quickly dismissed. Jude had always placed more reliance on instinct than evidence. “Those Pillars of Sussex are an incestuous lot. All scratching each other’s backs. They’ve got a lot of influence locally. If they wanted something kept quiet, I’m sure they could arrange it.”
Carole went into wet-blanket mode, a position that came distressingly easily to her. “Jude, you don’t know any of the people involved. You only met them last night—and that was hardly meeting in any meaningful sense. You may not have liked the Pillars of Sussex setup—I don’t like secretive all-male associations either—but that doesn’t mean they’re in a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.”
“No, I agree. But there’s one person I do know up at Hopwicke Country House Hotel, and she’s behaving totally out of character.”
“Your friend Suzy?” With the inevitable flicker of disapprobation.
“Yes. She denied having seen that threatening note. I know she saw it—she showed it to me. So somebody’s been putting pressure on Suzy. And I want to know who.”
Although she was not convinced by them, Jude’s suspicions had at least kept Carole’s mind off thoughts of her son and his fiancée. But it couldn’t last. When she got back to High Tor from Crown & Anchor, there was a message on the answering machine.
“Hello, Mother. It’s Stephen. Just a few details about the weekend after next, when we’re going to be in Sussex. We want a good base for looking at property, and we wouldn’t dream of landing on you, so we want you to check out a place Gaby’s heard about near Worthing. Called Hopwicke Country House Hotel. If you could just look at it, check out if it’d be all right for us . . . ? Could you confirm that you’ve got this message? Thank you.”
Carole’s first thought was: There’s a coincidence.
Her second was: What does he think I am? “If you could just look at it, check out it’d be all right for us . . . ?” Yes, sir, of course, sir, three bags full, sir.
And her third was: At least I don’t have to worry about sleeping arrangements here at High Tor.
Because she was Carole Seddon, the relief from the third thought brought her more comfort than the second thought had brought her discomfort.
10
“LISTEN, JUDE, IF there’s one subject I know about, it’s publicity. Good and bad.”
It was true. Suzy Longthorne had suffered the attentions of the press pack ever since she was in her teens. She had been flattered by them, fawned on, extravagantly praised, worshipped even. Then she had been criticised, carped at, pilloried, vilified. She, of all people, knew how quickly a media darling could become the target for all the mud that could be slung. And she knew how irrelevant the actual behaviour of a celebrity was to the press’s treatment of it. Suddenly, on a whim, they could turn against you, at the flick of a switch converting every positive to a negative.
“I’ve put a lot of time and money into building up Hopwicke House,” she went on at the other end of the phone. “I’m not about to throw all that away because of a burst of bad publicity.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that a suicide at the hotel is about the worst thing that can happen. But it’s containable. The poor young man’s family won’t want it blazoned all over the papers. The Pillars of Sussex certainly won’t want that either. And the police, for once, seem quite inclined to be discreet. Okay, there may be some publicity when the inquest happens, but hopefully that can be kept to the minimum too.”
“So you’re saying ‘Don’t rock the boat.’ ”
“Exactly.”
“You can’t deny you saw that note.”
“I can’t deny it to you, Jude, no. Because you saw it too. But I can sure as hell deny it to the police . . . or anyone else who asks.”
“That’s lying, Suzy.”
“So? For God’s sake, Jude, don’t come down on me like some sort of moral guardian. There are worse things in the world than lying. I happen to think that a murder enquiry at Hopwicke Country House Hotel would be one of them.”
Jude seized on that. “So you think it was murder too?”
“I don’t think anything,” her friend replied wearily. “I think what happened yesterday morning was another piece of incredibly bad luck, and I don’t know how many more of them I and this business can survive. I will do anything to keep the wrong kind of publicity for Hopwicke House down to a minimum. If that involves a little lying . . . then so be it.”
“But don’t you want to know the truth about what happened?”
“No, Jude, I really don’t.”
It was true. Suzy Longthorne wanted to protect her business and her reputation. Not everyone, Jude reflected wryly, was like her, desperate to get to the bottom of every mystery that life offered.
“Listen,” th
e voice on the phone went on, “over the years I’ve had enough prying into my private life. I don’t want to put at risk—”
“This is hardly prying into your private life.”
Suzy sounded thrown by this, as if she were covering up. “No, I . . . well, I didn’t mean—”
“You had nothing to do with Nigel Ackford.”
“Try telling that to a tabloid journalist. They’ll have fabricated an affair between us within seconds. And no doubt, along with that, the implication that I murdered him when he tried to break it off. In a fit of jealous rage. I can see the headlines now . . . ‘Fading Sixties Beauty Suzy Longthorne—’ ”
“Are you telling me that you will never admit to the existence of the threatening note Kerry found?”
“Yes, Jude. That is exactly what I’m telling you.”
After she had put the phone down, Jude felt troubled. Not because the feared the disagreement might end her friendship with Suzy. Jude was not prone to flouncing; she knew they’d stay in touch.
What had troubled her, though, were Suzy’s words about prying into her private life. The guard had dropped then; she had sounded vulnerable, ill at ease. Almost guilty.
As if concern for her business was not the only reason why Suzy Longthorne wished to minimise the level of investigation into Nigel Ackford’s death.
The local phonebook had proved surprisingly helpful. There was only one “Fullerton, W.” and the address was in Shoreham, a few miles along the coast from Fethering.
“Is that Wendy Fullerton?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know me. My name’s Jude.”
“Oh?”
“I’m calling in connection with Nigel Ackford.”
This news prompted an entirely different “Oh.” A metal shutter had come down.
Jude rushed ahead before she could be cut off. “I was working at Hopwicke Country House Hotel that night. I think I was probably the last person to see Nigel Ackford alive.”
“I’m not interested in—”
“He said something about you.”
“He said something about me?”
Jude had the girl’s attention now. “I wonder if it would be possible for us to meet . . . ?”
Wendy Fullerton’s consent was grudging, but, intrigued in spite of herself, she did want to know about her former boyfriend’s final hours. She worked for a building society in Worthing. She could nip out for a coffee the following afternoon. Three o’clock. Only for a quarter of an hour, mind. She was keeping her escape routes covered.
“It’s good that I’ve got an excuse to go up to Hopwicke House, to check it out for Stephen.”
“Yes . . .” Jude agreed distractedly.
“So maybe I could do some follow-up investigation . . . ?” Carole suggested.
“I’ll tell you for free, you won’t get anything out of Suzy.”
“Another member of staff might be more forthcoming.”
“If you see another member of staff. . . . The one I really need to talk to is Kerry.”
“What’s all this ‘I,’ Jude? I thought we worked together.”
“Yes. Sorry. It’s just . . . since I know the setup at Hopwicke House . . .”
“Of course.” But Carole didn’t sound completely mollified.
“What we really need to do,” said Jude, trying to make up for the unintentional slight, “is to find out more about the Pillars of Sussex. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nigel Ackford’s death had something to do with one of them.”
She crossed to the crammed surface of an old bureau, produced the guest list which she had retrieved from her apron before leaving Hopwicke House, and handed it across.
“Any of these names mean anything to you?”
“There’s one I know,” said Carole.
11
“HE LLO. COULD I speak to Barry Stilwell, please?”
There was a slight delay, during which Carole visualised the solicitor. Thin. Thin face. Lips thin almost to the point of absence. And so eternally pin-striped that she had idly wondered whether his flesh was pin-striped too. Fortunately, she had never been put in the position of verifying that speculation—though not for want of trying on Barry Stilwell’s part. The recollection of his face-flannel kisses could still send an involuntary shudder through her body.
“Well, well, well, Carole. This is a voice from the past. An unexpected bonus to my boring day.”
“Good to talk to you again too, Barry,” she lied.
“To what do I owe this? Business or pleasure?”
Well, it wasn’t really business. She was neither getting a divorce, nor moving house, nor sorting out a will, and those were the three areas of limited expertise from which Barry Stilwell, as a solicitor, made a very good living.
“Can we have a third category?” asked Carole. “It’s not business, it’s not pleasure. It’s really, I suppose, brain-picking.”
He sounded disappointed at that, but was still eager to meet. An unexpected cancelation (oh yes?) meant that he was actually free for lunch that day. Could Carole do it? Wonderful. Why not go back to the Italian in Worthing? Yes, Mario’s . . . “of happy memos”?
Carole’s memories of dinner with Barry Stilwell at Mario’s weren’t particularly happy. As she put the phone down, she wondered if the solicitor had once again misinterpreted her interest in him. Surely not, though. When they’d last met, he’d been a widower. Now he was remarried to the widow of a fellow Rotarian. Surely he wouldn’t be looking for other female company, would he?
Oh yes, he would. The enthusiastic—though dry—kiss which he placed on her lips when he greeted her, the hand in the small of her back guiding her to their table, the grin of masculine complicity to Mario as they sat down, all suggested that perhaps Barry Stilwell wasn’t totally fulfilled in his new marriage.
Carole reckoned the best deterrent was to bring up the subject of his wife straightaway. “Congratulations. I heard you had remarried, but I don’t know any of the details.”
“Oh, thank you,” he said dismissively. “Now tell me about yourself. What have you been up to during this age since we last met? We mustn’t leave it so long next time,” he added, with a chilly squeeze to her hand.
Removing her hand from the table, Carole persisted, “I don’t even know your wife’s name.”
“Pomme.”
“Pomme?”
“Pomme.”
They were in danger of sounding like an entry for the Eurovision song contest. “It’s French for apple,” Barry elucidated unnecessarily.
“Yes. I know that. So where did you meet?”
“At a Rotarian event,” he said hurriedly. “Her late husband was a Past President, like me.”
“Oh?” Carole hoped she sounded impressed. She was trying to.
“But enough of—”
“And does Pomme have children?”
“Yes. Three. They’re all grown up now.” Barry Stilwell was keen to dispel the hovering shadow of his wife from their dining table.
“So how do you like being a stepfather?”
“Well, it’s . . . well, it’s fine. I don’t really see a lot of them.”
“Because of course you didn’t have any children with . . .” Damn, the name had gone completely “ . . . with your first wife . . .”
“No. Vivienne and I were not blessed.”
Thank you for the name check, thought Carole, as she went on, “So how’s married life second time around?”
“Fine.” The word was as thin as his lips. “And what about you? Any new men on your horizon?”
“No.” As she thought about it, Carole realised how little she regretted the fact. She liked the slightly antiseptic exclusivity of High Tor. A man’s presence would only impinge on her privacy. That was one of the reasons why her skirmish with Ted Crisp couldn’t have lasted. But she was not about to mention that to Barry Stilwell.
“So I’m in with a chance?” he responded with misplaced roguishness.
&nbs
p; “You’re married, Barry.”
“Yes, but—”
Fortunately the appearance of Mario, flourishing menus the size of billboards, cut short the predictable litany about some men really liking women, his wife being very understanding and how, given the diminishing time available to them, people of their age should live life to the full.
The routine had been stalled once. Carole was determined not to give him another chance to run it before the end of the meal.
Exactly as he had on their last tryst at the restaurant, Barry Stilwell made much of ordering, indulging in a lot of coy consultation with Mario as to the quality of the day’s specials. Since the owner—as he would—said that everything on the menu was wonderful, this seemed a rather pointless ritual. But it was an essential part of the Stillwell restaurant protocol.
So was his elaborate tasting of the Italian Chardonnay he had persuaded Carole to share. “I enjoy my wine,” he volunteered, as if she might be interested. “Never drink spirits—I don’t like the taste. But I do enjoy my wine.”
She’d told him if he ordered a bottle he’d have to drink the bulk of it, as she was driving, but the prospect did not seem to worry him. She got the impression he drank most lunchtimes, probably in the same restaurant, to ease the tedium of an afternoon of divorces, wills and conveyancing. And she would have put money on the fact that the lunch bills were somehow claimed as legitimate expenses. She wondered how her consultation with him would be described when it was put through the firm’s books.
About time, though, that she defined the real purpose of their meeting. “I always remember you saying, Barry, that your local connections were pretty good . . .”
He beamed, taking this as an undiluted compliment. “I think I could be said to know my way around the West Sussex network, yes.”
“So you know everything about your fellow solicitors here in Worthing?”
“Oh yes, I certainly do. Though, Carole, I might quibble with your use of the word fellow. We are rivals, you know.”
“Of course.” Only so many divorces, wills and conveyancing jobs to go around. “The firm I want to know about is Renton & Chew. Do you know them?”
