by Simon Brett
‘Yes. He was married very young to the girl next door, or at least only a few doors away. Can’t remember what her name was, but they split up when he moved up to London and started in the music business. Then there was a second wife whose name I don’t know either, but I think she was the mother of Polly. Whether Ricky was Polly’s father or not, I don’t know. Finally, after, I’m sure, various and diverse entanglements, he met Lola.’
Carole couldn’t see any reason to tell Anna about Ricky’s other wife. Instead she asked, ‘And, from what you can gather, that’s a happy marriage?’
The woman’s face froze, as it had done when the subject arose of where she had lived before Fethering. ‘I have no idea. From what the public sees, everything seems to be fine.’
‘But you don’t—?’
‘I don’t know anything more about them than you do!’
Carole took the hint and changed the subject. ‘How many people have keys to Gallimaufry?’
‘Well, Lola does, obviously. And—’ She stopped at the sound of her mobile ringing. The haste with which she snatched it out of her pocket suggested that she was expecting someone to contact her. When she recognized the number, disappointment flickered across her face and she rejected the call. She replaced the phone in her pocket and stretched out her arms. ‘I must be getting back.’
‘Sorry, you were just telling me who had keys to the shop . . .’
‘Yes.’ For the first time the look she directed to her interrogator was edged with suspicion. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Carole shrugged sheepishly. ‘Just natural curiosity.’ Before Anna could say anything, she went on, ‘I’m sorry, but Fethering’s a very nosy place.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that.’
‘No, and with something like this happening . . . a murder . . . well, I’m afraid you’re going to get a lot of questions like the one I’ve just asked you, Anna. So I suppose you have to decide whether you’re going to just ignore them all or come up with some answers.’
Carole knew this apparent ingenuousness was a risk, and she waited tensely to see how the woman would react. Fortunately, she’d chosen the right approach. ‘You’re right,’ said Anna. ‘I’d better practise my act, hadn’t I? All right, let’s start with the keys at Gallimaufry . . . Lola has a set, Ricky has a set, I have a set. There’s also a spare set hidden at the back of the building, in case of emergencies. But I’m not going to tell anyone where they are.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’
‘No.’ Anna was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I’m still having difficulty taking this in. You say Polly was shot?’
‘It was on the television news.’
‘Ricky must be in a dreadful state. I can’t begin to think what the situation must be like up at his place.’
‘Not the most relaxed it’s ever been, I would imagine.’
‘He must be totally preoccupied by the tragedy. Not able to think about anything else.’ And again there seemed a perverse note of satisfaction in Anna’s voice. She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘But Polly . . . shot dead . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘God, that’s amazing. I mean, why on earth would anyone do that?’
‘The very question all the inhabitants of Fethering – not to mention the investigating police officers – are asking.’
There was a silence. Unaccountably, Carole found herself tempted to ask how Anna had actually spent her Christmas. She felt sure it had been in bleak solitude, as her own had been for the past few years. But the urge towards empathy was stopped by the remembrance that her own Christmas the day before had been enlivened by the presence of Stephen, Gaby and Lily. To probe into Anna’s life might be intruding on private grief.
So, instead, she pressed on with another investigative question. ‘Did you know either Ricky or Lola before you moved to Fethering?’
For some reason, this was a step too far. With a curt, ‘No. Now if you’ll excuse me I must be on my way’, Anna had gathered herself up, brought her snoozing dog up to its feet, and set off into the village.
Leaving Carole sitting in a rusty shelter on Fethering Promenade, the image of unhappy retirement which she had striven so hard to avoid. She was quickly up and off to collect Gulliver. Then she went straight back to High Tor.
Chapter Fifteen
Had she spent the previous day on her own like Anna, Carole would have been inhibited from contacting anyone on Boxing Day. Her loneliness would have been too raw, she would once again have been horrified at the idea of provoking pity. But because she had had what she was thinking of increasingly as ‘a normal Christmas’, she did not hesitate in dialling Jude’s number the minute she got home. Another person might have knocked on the door of Woodside Cottage but not Carole Seddon.
Her neighbour sounded bleary and Carole realized it was only half-past eight in the morning, perhaps a little early to contact someone on a public holiday. ‘I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘You did, actually, but don’t worry about it.’
‘Were you late last night?’
‘Yes, I was at Georgie’s; she and her family always have their Christmas dinner in the evening, and then we were playing party games into the small hours. I didn’t get back till about three.’
‘Oh,’ said Carole, a little worried that a Christmas Day whose celebrations finished at four in the afternoon when Stephen and family had left perhaps didn’t match up.
‘And how was your Christmas?’
‘Oh, you know, quiet.’ Realizing that this was precisely the answer she had given to such inquiries in the past, bleak years, Carole hastened to add, ‘It was lovely to see the family. Lily really seems to have caught on to the idea of presents.’
‘Oh, good. And were they all appreciated?’
‘Yes, very much so. You’ll be glad to know that Gaby adored her boa.’ No need to dwell on Stephen’s bewilderment when he unwrapped his Glow-in-the-dark Computer Angel. Instead, she summarized the conversation she had just had with Anna on Fethering Beach.
‘Interesting,’ said Jude at the end of the narration. ‘Particularly the areas she didn’t want to go into.’
‘Yes. Extremely cagey when we got on to anything about her past, it seemed. She’s a very private person.’
‘And you say she was expecting a phone call?’
‘Seemed to be. She certainly pounced on the mobile, and looked disappointed when she saw who it was.’
‘Waiting for a call from a lover . . .’ Jude mused.
‘We have no basis for saying that. Could have been a friend, a member of her family, anyone. We know hardly anything about her.’
‘No, but we do at least now know who has keys to Gallimaufry.’
‘Yes,’ Carole agreed, with a modest swell of pride at her investigative achievement.
‘So what we want to find out now is—’ There was a trilling noise in the background. ‘Sorry, that’s my mobile going.’
‘Call me back.’
Jude phoned back about ten minutes later. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘The call on my mobile was from Ricky Le Bonnier.’
‘Oh?’
‘He wants to come and talk to me.’
‘About what?’
‘Anything I noticed unusual in Polly’s behaviour at my party. He’s got an interview with the police coming up later in the morning. I think he’s trying to keep one step ahead of them.’
‘Get to you before they do, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hm.’ There was a slightly peeved silence before Carole said, ‘Of course, at the party Polly did, in fact, talk to me more than she talked to you.’
‘I know that. Which is why I suggested that you should also be here when Ricky comes.’
‘Oh. Oh, did you?’ Carole couldn’t keep the pleasure out of her voice. ‘When’s he coming?’
‘In about half an hour.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘How’s Lola taking it?’ aske
d Jude.
‘She’s not too bad. Got the kids to keep her occupied; she doesn’t have much time to brood. No, it’s my mother who’s really cut up about what’s happened.’
‘And you, Ricky? How’re you coping?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t think it’s really hit me yet. So many practical things need doing. Then there’s the police sniffing around. And they’re still doing forensic investigations on . . . on . . .’ he couldn’t bring himself to mention his stepdaughter’s body – ‘you know, so we can’t even make funeral plans. It just seems to be one practical thing after the other at the moment. But I think it’s going to hit me quite hard when things settle down.’
‘Yes,’ said Jude.
‘Any idea why your mother’s taking it so hard?’ asked Carole. ‘From the brief time I saw the two of them together, she and Polly didn’t seem particularly close.’
‘No.’ Ricky Le Bonnier was silent for quite a long time, dwarfing the draped armchair on which he was sitting. He was dressed in khaki chinos and a brown leather jacket, cut long. The day’s choice of glasses were large and owl-like with orange plastic frames. In spite of his adverse circumstances, there was still a compelling energy about the man.
When he finally spoke, it was with caution. ‘I think the reason Mother’s reacting like she is is because she’s kind of got the feeling what’s happened to Polly could have happened to her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carole, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Look, Mum’s generation was a lot less open about depression than we are now.’
‘Are you saying Polly was depressed?’ asked Jude.
‘Of course I am. Look, she had no real reason to top herself. Not now. I mean, she was very affected by my breaking up with her mum, and then her mum dying.’
‘A drug overdose, Lola said.’
‘Did she?’ He grimaced, as though he didn’t want his wife passing on that kind of information. ‘Well, yes, it was. And, obviously, that affected Polly at the time – or at least I was told it did. And I wasn’t there for her then, so maybe I’ve got to hold my hand up and take a bit of blame. But it’s not like she’s my own daughter. Not my own flesh and blood. Not like Mabel and Henry.’ He couldn’t disguise the pride he felt for his new family. ‘I mean, I like to think I did my duty by the kid when Vanessa and me were together, but . . .’
He coloured, as if he didn’t want to have that claim examined too closely. ‘Anyway, we’re talking a long time ago. Last few years, Polly’s life has been fine. OK, she wasn’t getting much acting work and I don’t know how healthy her relationship with Piers was, but basically she had no material or logical reason to take her own life. So she must’ve done it because she was depressed.’
‘You’re sure she did take her own life?’
‘What else is there to think?’
Carole was tempted to reply that there were quite a lot of other things to think, even tempted to mention the word ‘murder’, but she restrained herself. And she did feel a little guilty for never having considered the possibility of suicide. ‘So what about the fire? You reckon Polly started that?’
‘Again, what else can I think?’
‘But from what she said to me, she appeared to like Lola. Why would she want to destroy her friend’s business?’
‘Carole, people suffering from severe depression are not at their most logical. I’m sure it all made some kind of sense to Polly’s poor, tortured mind.’ For the first time his voice broke. The emotion was getting to him. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jude found herself wondering unworthily how much of his reaction was real. She had spent time with a lot of actors, and Ricky Le Bonnier shared with them a flamboyance which could all too easily turn to self-dramatization.
‘I still don’t quite see,’ said Carole, ‘why your stepdaughter’s committing suicide should have such an effect on your mother.’
‘It’s relevant,’ he replied, ‘because Mother has been a depressive all her life. And, as I say, in her generation, it was a hard thing to own up to. You had to hide it. There was a stigma about mental illness, you had to pretend everything was OK. You’d couldn’t succumb to it, then you’d be thought of as “not having any backbone”, “letting the side down”. You’d be told to “snap out of it”. And the kind of medication you could get for depression in those days – assuming you ever plucked up courage to seek medical help – well, it was pretty scary stuff. I mean, I’ve dabbled in the odd recreational substance in my time . . .’ As ever, when he referred to drugs, there was a kind of sheepish pride in his tone – ‘but I wouldn’t have touched any of the prescription drugs they used to dish out for depression in those days. They’d literally blow your mind.
‘Anyway, Mum was always terrified that people in the family might be depressives. She even used to worry about me – though she certainly had no need to. I’m glad to say I’m fine. I’ve never had a depressed thought in my life. I’m too bloody cheerful, if anything, some people would say almost bumptious. But then Polly became part of the family circle. And she was never a relaxed child to have around the house. I think she’d been upset when her parents split up, and then perhaps I didn’t give her as much time as I should have done. And I think Mum, you know, having been there herself, recognized that depressive streak in Polly and now feels she should have done more to help the girl before . . . what happened happened. That’s why she’s so upset.’
‘Did Polly seem depressed to you, Ricky, when she came down before Christmas?’
‘I don’t know, Jude.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not really an expert on the subject. I’ve been told she’s a depressive, but I’m not sure what the signs of that are. We’ve always had quite a sparky relationship – not to say a spiky one. She still blames me for leaving her mother . . . and, as I’ve said, I’m sorry for that. And maybe there was something I could have done to get her mother off the heroin. After all, I managed to do it. But we were divorced by then, she was kind of out of my life. Anyway, I’m not going to go on beating myself up about stuff like that. Life’s too short, you have to move on, you have to get over things. So, in answer to your question, no, I didn’t notice anything particularly different about Polly last week. But, you know, I was busy, and I’ve often been told I’m not very sensitive to other people’s feelings.’
He announced this more as if it were a badge of honour than a criticism. ‘I mean, I’m not proud of it,’ he lied, ‘but sometimes going into things with hobnail boots flying can have its advantages. Like when dealing with hypersensitive artistes . . . either you accept their egos at their own evaluation, you know, a lot of people kind of bend over backwards trying to answer their every whim, whereas with me, I’m the original WYSIWYG . . . “What you see is what you get”. I don’t act differently with different people, whatever size stars they may be. I’m just Ricky Le Bonnier – take it or leave it. And a lot of supposedly difficult artistes were prepared to take it. I mean, when Elton John was upset, it was always me they used to send in to sort him out. And, though I say it myself, it usually worked out pretty well . . .’
And he was off on another of his name-dropping recollections. Jude asked herself why she didn’t find him repellent. However great his egocentricity and habit of blowing his own trumpet, he never quite lost touch with his charm. And he was annoyingly well aware of that fact.
Towards the end of his monologue, when he spoke of Polly, he got a little tearful, and again Jude suspected artifice. But there was no doubting his sincerity when he turned to Carole and asked, ‘Was there anything in what she said to you at the party that gave a hint of what she was planning to do?’
In spite of her own doubts, Carole decided this was not the moment to question whether the girl had suicidal intentions, so all she said by way of reply was, ‘Nothing specific, no. She seemed a bit cynical about life in general, but I think a lot of young people are. And she seemed quite excited about this book she was writing.’
‘Ah.’ Ricky nodded.
‘The book. Maybe it was something to do with that.’
‘In what way, something to do with that?’
‘As you say, she was excited about it. I think maybe she’d been investing too much hope in . . .’ His fingers mimed quotation marks ‘“the book”. She thought that it would be the cure-all, the thing that would set her on a level with Piers in terms of success, that would make her enough money so that she didn’t have to continue traipsing around auditioning for parts she very rarely got.’
‘And you think, maybe,’ Jude suggested, ‘that she just had some bad news on the book . . . that a publisher had turned it down, perhaps? And that was what prompted her to take her own life?’
‘It could have been that.’ He seemed glad to seize on the idea. ‘Yes, that might make sense. I’ll check with Piers whether she’d had any news on that front.’
‘You know that Piers came to see us?’ asked Carole.
‘I heard that, yes. I think Lola was quite glad to get him out of the house. She’d got enough on her plate, what with Mum in the state she’s in and everything else that was going on.’
‘Piers told us that he was about to break up with Polly, that he’d found someone else. Did you know that, Ricky?’
He nodded. ‘I’d suspected things weren’t too rosy between them for some time.’
‘Do you think Polly knew she was about to be dumped?’
‘She must’ve done. She must’ve known it was only a matter of time. Another reason for her to think life wasn’t worth living.’ His voice broke again, and again Jude couldn’t be sure how genuine the emotion was. ‘Poor kid.’
‘Yes, poor kid,’ she echoed.
‘Ricky,’ said Carole briskly, ‘you keep talking about Polly’s suicide. Has the possibility occurred to you that she might have been murdered?’ Good old Carole, thought Jude, getting straight to the point.
He looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. ‘But why would anyone want to murder her?’
Carole shrugged. ‘Why does anyone want to murder anyone? There is a fairly well-known list of traditional motives.’
