Jody sighed for the hundredth time. ‘I went round to his house not knowing it was him who lived there. I was shocked when I recognised him. All I could think of was finding somewhere safe to stay and I thought that if I confronted Mr Marsh with what he’d done I’d be in a good position to hide out there for a while.’ Jody closed his eyes and slumped hopelessly in his chair. ‘And it worked. It would have kept on working if that photographer hadn’t come creeping round, if my mugshot hadn’t got published, if Vernon Marsh hadn’t known who I was. The moment he found out who I was he decided to implicate me.’
‘So all of a sudden you ceased to be afraid of him, did you?’ asked Mr Goodyear. ‘You daren’t confront him at the cottage, but you changed your tune when you saw him talking to a neighbour in his front garden. Isn’t that rather odd?’
Jody shook his head and groaned. ‘On the moor I was taken by surprise, and horrified when I saw what he was doing. He didn’t look so sinister in his front garden, he just looked like anyone else, and I suppose I’d had more time to think logically. OK, I was stronger and fitter than him, but I still kept a wary eye on him, I can tell you. I didn’t turn my back for a second.’
‘But you lied to the police, Jody, didn’t you? You told them you went to the Blagdons because your parents were buying a house there and you wanted to take a look at it. Now that has to be a lie. The coincidence that Joyvern was the very house where the murdered woman just happened to live is totally unbelievable! You must have met Joy Marsh at Hacienda and she must have told you where she lived…’
‘Hey! Hey! You’re mixing me up! Stop! I never met Joy Marsh at Hacienda or anywhere else. When I first saw her she was well and truly dead and I only saw her hand anyway. I never knew Vernon Marsh lived at that house. Why d’you keep twisting things?’
‘Because that is what they will eventually do when you come to court!’
‘But not tomorrow?’
‘No, not tomorrow. Tomorrow you just agree to your name and address.’
‘So why go through all this now?’
‘For my own benefit, Jody. I want to have a clear picture in my head of what you say happened.’
Jody got up and slammed his fists down on the table between them. ‘You’re just the same as the rest and I’m up to here with all this. If you don’t believe a word I say, why don’t you find someone who does! Why don’t you all just go away and leave me alone.’
‘Jody! Don’t!’ pleaded Babs, in tears.
‘You let me down at the rape committal…’
‘Jody, be quiet. Sit down and control yourself, please,’ said Mr Goodyear quietly.
But Jody was lost to reason. He hammered against the door, shouting and kicking and demanding to be returned to his cell.
Babs and Mr Goodyear sat side by side, Babs shaking and Mr Goodyear calmly making notes.
‘He didn’t do it, you know, Mr Goodyear,’ said Babs.
‘Well, he’s got a funny way of proving it,’ sighed Mr Goodyear, getting up stiffly to go.
So Babs has quite a few things she would have liked to discuss with her family, but the girls have gone upstairs in a huff and Lenny has clearly had enough and doesn’t want to talk about it tonight.
‘Let’s go out and see what’s happening at Swallowbridge.’ He tries valiantly to change the subject, tries to distract her for her own sake. He cares. At least Len still seems to care. ‘People are talking about nothing else. Half the guests here are from the press.’
‘Oh no! Don’t tell me that,’ is Babs’ immediate reaction.
‘No, Babs, they’re not here for Jody’s committal. They are here because some old lady has locked herself away from the world…’
‘I don’t blame her,’ says Babs. ‘I’d love to do that. Even Jody was saying how much he admired her and her friend. It was quite pathetic, Len, to hear him. He said how he’d love to do something brave and noble like that. It was that little Miss Benson who seemed to have captured Jody’s imagination, as if to say—if she can stick it out and succeed, then so can I.’
‘They say the Queen is involved, that unless she does something to please the protesters the Royals have well and truly had it. Curtains. Finito. Apparently the hanky panky at the top has gone too far this time.’
‘Oh Len, I find it so strange how life goes on and how people get involved in things which are nothing to do with them as if their own lives aren’t hard enough.’
‘Most people don’t have the sort of problems we’ve had to put up with for so long,’ Lenny says gently. ‘Come on, you’re not hungry. Sitting here is a waste of time. You won’t taste anything if you do order it. Let’s fetch the girls and go out and join the throng. At least if you’re doing something, pet, you stand a chance of forgetting about Jody for a second or two. If we don’t do anything you’ll get more and more depressed and weary and you won’t sleep again and we’ve got all that to get through tomorrow.’
Babs smiles at him weakly. ‘I don’t think he’s going to get off, Len.’ A little shudder runs through her as she wanders round in her loneliness. ‘I think they’ve got him this time.’
Len stands up and helps his exhausted wife from her chair. ‘Come on, love, let’s go and get Dawn and Cindy and give them something else to think about, too.’
‘How could that evil man do this to Jody?’
‘Give over, Babs. I said, let’s try and forget it just for a while.’
‘Jody gets done for this and a murderer walks free.’
‘I know, Babs, I know. But we can’t be sure of anything yet.’
‘Jody’s a good boy. He is our son.’ She pauses and turns to face him. ‘But you think he is guilty this time, I can tell. Don’t you, Len?’
He is so very tired of lying to protect her. His final betrayal is said with sad reluctance. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do.’
A total stranger, a little boy with big brown eyes travels up in the lift to the first floor. He gives Babs a bashful smile as he gets out and she and Len are left to continue alone. She stands stock still with her hand to her mouth, like a child with a difficult problem. They have nearly arrived at their floor when Babs collapses in Len’s strong arms, trembling, shaking, heartbroken. He notes with alarm the despair in her eyes but what she says is the best thing he has heard since she first told him she loved him all those years ago.
‘Oh Len, Len, I’m beginning to think so, too.’
THIRTY-NINE
The Grange, Dunsop, Nr Clitheroe, Lancs
HAH! SINCE WALTER MATHEWS was eleven years old he has been waiting for this moment. In the early days—not recently, recently it’s become just an aching fantasy—he used to dream about paying that wretched arsehole Mountjoy Minor back. For never has Walter forgotten one moment of his most miserable childhood, when he was bullied, taunted, mocked, humiliated, hounded and beaten by the very man he spoke to so casually yesterday afternoon.
And the jerk had the gall to ask for a favour! Walter almost messed it up and laughed out loud. Good grief, the English public-school set are way beyond the pale, smugly secure in the warped belief that old school connections will get them anywhere, all they have to do is wear the tie and mention a few memorable cricket matches.
To start with, he couldn’t believe it was him Lovette was rambling on about. He was checking Mountjoy’s antecedents for a book, the abominable Lovette lied on the phone, but once Walter sussed that Mountjoy was after a favour he leapt at the chance and suggested that he ring him himself. The nerd was at the Sovereign’s Scottish retreat and Walter thought, how typical, ever the brown-nose, ever the snob.
It is crucial for Walter to get this promotion over quickly, to launch his new group, Haze, in the vacant August slot, this group which is far more of a curio piece than a serious enterprise with worthwhile expectations, sad sods. One freaky CD, rather dated, most of it sentimental rubbish which will appeal to the young married fogies, and their come-back will be over, but of course their puffed up egos blind them to this simple t
ruth. There isn’t the scope for a follow-up; their talents are far too limited. Walter is using them to make a quick buck. The finances for this cranky fun-day will soon be recouped—the man’s a wizard with money, and unbeaten in his record for spotting tomorrow’s chart-toppers. One week at the top for A Midsummer Night’s Dream—which is exactly what it will be as far as the performers are concerned, a round of crazy interviews and it’ll be good night for the three of them. Fair enough. A week to remember is better than nothing at all, and on the strength of the one-off earnings, Walter should be well set-up for his next serious project.
Because of his glittering reputation, the wedding launch at The Grange is not an event those precariously balanced at the top of the music tree can afford to turn down. They’ll all be there, the short notice won’t mean a thing. They will do anything, pay the earth for last-minute flights, cancel previous engagements just to be where it matters, in the right place at the right time. Nobody in the business is going to risk a turn-down which might slight the influential Walter. Already there are fights going on over the invitations, carefully designed to cause a fuss and upset those who are not invited. The wounded feelings over the guest-list at the last Royal Wedding was never a patch on this.
A sprinkling of blue-blood is always essential and Walter knows that against all the wishes of their hapless advisers, especially in these dodgy times, James Henry Albert and his older brother, Rupert, the baton-dropping member of the next Olympic relay team, are bound to put in an appearance under the names of Wayne and Derek. Such an old and tiresome joke. For this is how the brothers get their kicks, one of those few occasions on which they can let their hair down, away from the stuffy confines of the rest of their lives.
The press are normally sympathetic. There’s an unwritten law at times like these, to which most people who know which side their bread is buttered, adhere.
Walter rubs his fat and heavily ringed hands. Everything’s looking good. It is a Hollywood film set, and just as temporary, like the fame of Haze, easily achieved if you’ve got the dosh and the know-how. The morning dawns with a perfectly soft summer light, the sun’s orange beams slant on the vast red white and blue expanse of the main marquee which straddles the daisied lawns, the romantic rose-strewn bowers, the patterned pathways, the waterfalls, the discreetly breezy bunting, all reminiscent of the Chelsea Flower Show and surprisingly similar. Here, amid the fantasy, is where the wedding will take place. The altar is like a night sky ablaze with silver-white, virginal flowers. A few carpeted paces away and the Hawaiian bar with its thatched umbrellas is set around the deep blue pool, and the dining area, under imported palm trees, is riotous in a tasteless and gaudy Calypso style.
The wedding itself is scheduled to take place at noon. During the morning the helipad will be constantly busy and the sky overhead nothing short of a buzzing hive as everyone who is anyone hastens to the place where it’s at. The field below the drive has been designated as a car park and by half-past eleven it will be filled with the world’s most desirable speed machines. Waitresses dressed in nymph-like tunics of gold and wearing dainty thonged sandals, the fairies of Shakespeare’s Dream, will circulate balancing trays of exotic and mind-blowing cocktails. Nothing has been overlooked. Walter has checked and checked again with his expert and highly-paid generals who assure him that nothing can possibly go wrong.
At ten o’clock precisely, because Walter likes to time his operations carefully, he makes his way into The Grange itself and marvels at the changes money can make. A quick lick-over, a few expensive and sumptuous rugs, pictures, soft-footed uniformed servants and floral displays—all to be returned—and, apart from the unfortunate changes undertaken by Jacy during his short residence, like the removal of the leaded windows and their replacement with double-glazing, the house has taken on an entirely different ambience. The style of the place has returned. Walter Mathews grins with pleasure and puffs on a fat cigar.
Jacy, the bridegroom, comes from the dining room wearing a look of exultation and a white linen suit with knee-length cowboy boots. His arms are covered in bracelets. The jerk still doesn’t seem to realise that he is being exploited as a time-warp freak. Cyd and Darcy, dressed in identical costumes of black, have clearly been indulging their habit already. Darcy’s eyes are partially glazed and Walter must remember to put a minder on him at least until the main ceremony is over.
‘Wow, man, you’re amazing,’ says Walter, slapping Jacy’s outstretched hand in a manly yet youthful greeting. ‘And how’s Mrs Smedley, the beautiful bride this morning?’
‘Gone back to bed to have breakfast there,’ says Jacy grumpily. He’s been disappointed by Belle’s half-hearted reaction to the hasty Register Office marriage at nine this morning, and now to this crazy hyped-up wedding reception, all done without consultation and with none of her family or friends invited. Walter has been informed of all this and is interested to note that Jacy defensively fails to tell him.
‘I’ll pop up and have a quick word,’ says Walter, and before Jacy can stop him he’s off up the stairs, nimble, as heavy men often are, and striding straight into the main bedroom without bothering to knock. He had half-expected to have to wheedle Arabella’s whereabouts out of the saucy Belle, but luckily the fugitive is draped on the bed pulling apart a piece of toast, sharing her hostess’s breakfast. Both women look up in alarm as the large, undisguisedly American, imposing presence of Walter Mathews himself steps through the door and closes it firmly behind him.
Back outside in the sunshine again, and just one hour later the unmistakable vintage Packard convertible belonging to the much-maligned James Henry Albert rattles up to take its place in the car park. Beside him is his brother, Rupert, both of them relieved to escape, albeit briefly, from the heavy tension of life at home at the moment. It was hell to slip their minders but they’d bested them in the end. The holiday has been ruined by the scandal and it’s all James’ fault. People are going tediously round with long faces, saying it might be the end. But James Henry Albert laughs it off, and puts it down to the periodic hysteria of the masses. What would they be talking about if they weren’t talking about him? He vaguely remembers that this is the place where Arabella holed out before her disgraceful performance. It is also the place that oaf Sir Hugh was pressing him to buy, but he has no idea that Peaches is still here. His advisers considered it wisest to keep the unpredictable Prince in ignorance of that piece of information.
This is a fun day out as far as the two Princes are concerned, and they are dressed accordingly, in the costume of Elizabethan nobility—jerkins, leggings, cod-pieces and big hats with feathers, to complement the theme of the day.
They stroll towards the marquee at a regal, unhurried pace, their eyes turning neither to right nor left because they know very well that all the faces they pass instantly swing to recognise them. Immediately they arrive, one of the sprites in a wispy dress which hides nothing makes it her business to offer them champagne cocktails, and ply them with more and more as they circulate. These two handsome swells are naturally two of the most popular guests.
Walter Mathews sidles up and a fawning crowd gathers immediately. The cameras flash, but everyone knows these pictures will circulate harmlessly among the in-crowd, there’s no real danger at a bash like this. The principal players, Jacy, Darcy and Cyd, whose day this is, are introduced to the Royal brothers and Jacy, already on a high, hits it off immediately, gooning and clowning around and slapping the backs of perfect strangers.
Talk naturally moves towards wedding bells and lack of future freedom. ‘At least I’ve done the decent thing,’ says Jacy, euphorically, ‘and Belle’s not the sort of woman you see every day.’
‘Belle is amazing,’ Walter chips in. ‘She’s going to do more for your popularity with the punters than any amount of songs you might sing. She’s got class, she’s a real little honey… It says a lot for your prowess in bed, getting hooked to a looker like that.’
‘Yeah,’ says Jacy happily, su
rrounded by the great and good. ‘And she thinks the sun shines out of my arse. Always has.’
‘That’s the kind of woman you want,’ says fat-cat Walter, nudging Jamie, familiar enough with the young man jovially to slap his brown leather cod-piece. ‘So how’s the horsy Lady Frances going to take to this overworked equipment?’
From the crowd comes a nervous snigger but the Prince knows the roguish Walter; he graciously takes it all in his stride. Splendidly self-confident and fighting fit, the ornament of the day, he takes another drink from the cutie with the tray and the tempting cleavage.
Walter points to the house. ‘There’s one little stunner in there who’s got the hots for you. She thinks it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.’
There’s so many, the Prince looks confused.
‘Does the name Peaches ring any bells?’
‘I say! Not Arabella?’
‘You’ve got it in one.’
‘There? Inside this house?’
‘Yep, a real little doll.’
The Prince frowns and his regal nostrils flare. ‘She’s caused me some real aggro.’
‘She’s a woman in love, for Christ’s sake. She’s blooming and broody and she’s still swearing to God that you are the one and only love of her life.’ Walter cracks a tasteless joke. ‘If you were a real man, you’d be taking her up the aisle today, side by side, with old Jacy here.’
‘What a laugh,’ giggles the little girl with the huge breasts and the colourful cocktails. ‘Wouldn’t they all go mad if they knew?’
‘Jamie daren’t even think about that,’ says his older brother, smiling grimly. ‘Even for a laugh, if it ever got out… And her people are nothing, really.’
‘Yeah, it’s a dream, that’s all it is,’ goads Walter, ‘much too risky to try even here.’
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