The Stabbing in the Stables

by Simon Brett

  Still, one positive confirmation had come out of her conversation with Sonia. The evidence that had led the police to Alec Potton had been what they’d found in the Dalrymples’ hayloft.

  Fethering Beach that Monday afternoon was resolutely monochrome. When the sun shone, the colours came to life, like a child’s Magic Painting splashed with water. Then the blue in the sky drew out the blues and greens of the sea. The weed on the beach sparkled like a carpet of emeralds. Then the sand was—if not golden—at least a rich biscuity yellow.

  But not on that dour late February day. The idea that a sun existed anywhere seemed an unlikely fabrication. The sea was leaden, and the sky a darker lead. The sand was the grey of damp cement. Even the coat of Gulliver, scampering around like a host at a failed party trying to inject some life into the proceedings, was another shade of grey in the unremitting gloom.

  “So we have to wait till tomorrow morning,” said Carole moodily.

  “Hm?”

  “Till we can get any further with our investigation. You said Sonia Dalrymple’s coming to see you.”

  “Yes, but she’s coming to see me as a client. I can’t use our session as an excuse to pick her brains about her being blackmailed.”

  “Why not? Medical ethics?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  Carole’s snort expressed fully her attitude to the concept of medical ethics being applied to the flaky, spurious world of alternative medicine. “Well, if you don’t want to find out who killed Walter Fleet…”

  “I do, Carole. You know I do. And we do have other lines of enquiry open to us.”

  “Oh yes? Like what?”

  “Hilary Potton. You’re sort of chums with her, aren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘chums.’”

  “You’ve talked to her. You’ve phoned her before. Why not give her another call?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’d would look pretty insensitive. I mean, at a time like this. Her husband’s being questioned as part of a murder enquiry. The last thing she’s going to want is inquisitive phone calls from people she hardly knows.”

  “I’m not so sure, Carole. From what you said about the state of her marriage, her husband’s not her favourite person.”

  “There’s a difference between not liking someone, and wanting to see them arrested for murder.”

  “I wonder…” Jude scuffed her boot in the grey shingle as she thought about this. “Of course, your approach needn’t sound insensitive.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “It could sound caring.”

  “Caring?” Carole echoed sceptically. “Please explain.”

  “Well, there are two possible approaches. Either you can pretend you’ve heard nothing about Alec’s arrest…”

  “That’d be clumsy, rather than caring.”

  “…or you can say you have heard this rumour…and you can’t believe it’s true…and aren’t people appalling the way they slander perfectly innocent citizens of this country…and can Hilary please reassure you that it’s complete rubbish.”

  “Hm.” Carole wasn’t going to concede too quickly that this approach might work, but she was coming round to the idea.

  “What time did you say her shift at Allinstore was?”

  “Four to eight every weekday, except Wednesdays.” Carole looked at the neat little watch on her wrist. While she could recognise the strength of Jude’s argument, everything inside her protested at the idea of just ringing Hilary Potton out of the blue. “Probably too late to catch her today. By the time I’ve got back home to the phone.”

  “I’ve got my mobile with me.”

  “Hello. Is that Hilary?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Carole Seddon. You remember, we met in the Seaview Café.”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  Carole felt very aware of Jude sitting with her in the rusty seafront shelter. She had never liked making phone calls with other people present. During her Home Office career, she had been hugely relieved when she became senior enough to have her own office with a door that closed. And she was glad she had left the Civil Service before open-plan office accommodation became universal. Even though she knew Jude to be the least judgmental person in the world, Carole still wished she was on her own.

  “Look, I’m sorry to trouble you with a call right now, because I know you’ve got to be at Allinstore shortly—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I won’t be going into Allinstore this afternoon.”

  “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “No. I’m afraid something rather dreadful’s happened. Over the weekend my husband—my nearly ex-husband—was taken in for questioning by the police…”

  “No.”

  “…in connection with the murder of Walter Fleet.”

  So much for Carole’s worries about how she was going to initiate the conversation—or indeed invent a reason for her call. But that wasn’t her primary thought right then. She was more struck by Hilary Potton’s manner. Although the woman was relaying extremely bad news, there was no doubt that she was doing so with great relish. Whether this was just because Hilary enjoyed being at the centre of her drama, or because what had happened confirmed her worst suspicions about her husband’s character, Carole had no means of knowing.

  “Anyway, given that situation, Carole, I am absolutely determined to be at home when Imogen gets back from school. I mean, I hate to think what kind of whispering and innuendo she’s had to put up with from the other kids. They can be so cruel. I didn’t want her to go to school toady, but she insisted. So I need to be here for her. As a result, I’m afraid this afternoon Allinstore will have to whistle for my services.”

  “Yes. And of course it wouldn’t be much fun for you, would it? Like poor Imogen at school. With everyone who came into the shop whispering and nudging about what had happened—you know, knowing that you were Alec’s wife?”

  “I suppose it would be rather horrid. I hadn’t really thought about that aspect of it.” But she sounded as if she had. And she didn’t sound appalled; in fact, Carole suspected, the image was not without its attraction. Her inkling that Hilary Potton might be a bit of a drama queen was strengthened.

  Having had the subject so painlessly broached for her, it was time for a bit of subterfuge. “But it must be dreadful for you, Hilary. The police must’ve made a mistake, mustn’t they? Surely they have no evidence to link Alec to the scene of the crime, do they?”

  “I wish I could say that was true, Carole.” She didn’t sound that unhappy about the situation, though. “I’m afraid they did find something—obviously I can’t tell you the details, but…It doesn’t look too good for Alec, I’m afraid.”

  “How on earth does that make you feel?”

  “Ghastly, of course. And yet at the same time it does confirm some of my worst fears—you know, about Alec. I mean, when we first got married, I didn’t realise how unstable he was. I came to see that over the years. I mean, there was the philandering—which I mentioned to you—and that’s never a particularly encouraging indication of a man’s character. But over the last months Alec has been getting increasingly unpredictable—sudden mood-swings—you know what I mean? And his behaviour…I mean, he’s been very…I don’t know what the word is…‘clingy’ where Imogen’s concerned.”

  “Clingy?”

  “Yes, sometimes he behaves more as if she were his lover than his daughter.”

  “You’re not suggesting…”

  “Oh, good heavens, no. At least I don’t think he’d ever touch her in that way. Mind you, I don’t really know what to think about Alec now. If he’s capable of murdering someone, then I suppose there are all other kinds of things he might…” Hilary Potton’s words petered out, as though she were taking in the implications of what she’d said. A speech that had started off as a defence of her husband had ended up as a pretty thorough indictment.

  “So you think he is capable of murder?”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know. He keeps getting these sudden rages and jealousies. He’s certainly capable of having got it into his head that there was something between Walter Fleet and me.”

  “But he didn’t have any justification for that, did he?” asked Carole, phrasing her question with care.

  “Good heavens, no. Nothing concrete. I mean, Walter did fancy me—there was no question about that. You know, we women can always tell when a man’s interested, and Walter was certainly interested. Constantly putting his arm round me, holding my hand when it wasn’t quite necessary. I didn’t mind. I even, probably, flirted with him a bit. Nothing serious, just fun. Being married to Alec, I found it quite a pleasant change to have a man saying nice things to me. But, as I say, there was nothing there, just a bit of frivolity. But maybe Alec saw me and Walter together at some point when he was chatting me up and”—Carole could feel her shudder down the phone—“well, with what tragic consequences.”

  “So you do actually think your husband killed Walter Fleet?”

  “I’d love not to think that, Carole. I’d give anything not to think that, but…I’m afraid the facts may be against me. Of course, I’ll go on believing in his innocence as long as I can…” She trailed off without much optimism.

  The next question was a tricky one. Carole had to find the right way of putting it which would not reveal her private knowledge of what the police had presumably found in the stables at the Dalrymples. “Hilary…you don’t know how the police found the evidence against your husband? I mean, where they found it, or whether someone tipped them off about where to look?”

  “I’m sorry,” came the prim reply. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that. All I know—” She was interrupted. “Oh, I’m sorry, Carole, that’s Immy back from school. I must talk to her.”

  “Of course.”

  “But thanks so much for ringing. And, if you want to call again, please do.”

  Thank you, thought Carole. I will.

  24

  THAT EVENING JUDE’S mind was full of images. Shapeless, ill-defined, blurred images, but they troubled her. She could not say precisely what they presaged, but her mind had been free of them before she heard the news about Alec Potton. Something felt wrong there. Something told her that he wasn’t a murderer.

  But she was not so arrogant as to assume that she was right in her reaction. Her instincts were as fallible as anyone else’s. She could think of many occasions when she had been convinced of a certain truth, only to have it proved worthless by logic and evidence. But at that moment, she could not think of Alec Potton as a guilty man. Or at least not as a man guilty of murder.

  Jude went through a routine she frequently followed when she was troubled. She did an hour of yoga. The familiar postures and movements, and the concentration required to achieve them, balanced her thoughts, put the unwelcome images into a better perspective.

  Then she filled the bath with a personal mix of herbs, lit fragrant candles around the room, and while her heavy body luxuriated in the steamy water, allowed her thoughts not to dissipate, but to assume manageable proportions.

  It was while she was towelling herself down and thinking what to cook for supper that her mobile rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Jude?”

  The voice was young, familiar and yet at that moment so stretched with tension that she could not immediately recognise it. Fortunately she did not have to wait long for identification.

  “It’s Imogen. Imogen Potton. You know, we met at—”

  “Yes. Of course I know who you are. Is everything all right?”

  “Fine,” asserted a voice whose tautness told a different story.

  “Listen, Imogen. I heard about your father being taken in by the police. I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Don’t worry, they’ll soon release him.”

  There was no response from the other end. Jude felt this was not because Imogen had nothing to say, but because she didn’t feel confident that she could keep her emotions in check if she did speak.

  “Presumably it is about what happened to your father that you were ringing?”

  “Yes,” the girl answered curtly. Brusqueness perhaps gave her a means of control. “You remember that day you were at the stables?”

  “What, at Sonia’s? When I was healing—?”

  “No, the other time. Friday morning at Long Bamber.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I was mucking out Conker’s stable while you were talking to Lucinda and Donal, and I could hear everything you were saying—”

  “I don’t think we were saying anything particularly dreadful.”

  “No, that’s not the point.” Her voice now had a tone of teenage irritation at the inability of grown-ups ever to understand what was relevant. “Donal said something about you having a hotline to the police.”

  “I remember. I’ve no idea what he meant by that.”

  “What, you mean you haven’t got a hotline to the police?” Imogen almost wailed in disappointment.

  “Well, I’ve been questioned by them, because I don’t know if you know, but I actually found—I was the first person to arrive at the scene of the crime after Walter Fleet’s death. But, apart from that, I don’t know anything about how their enquiries are currently proceeding. I think Donal was just having a joke with me.”

  “No, but you do have a name? The name of one of the detectives in charge of the investigation?”

  “Well, I can tell you who the two I talked to were, yes.”

  Imogen seemed desperate for the information, so Jude gave the names.

  “And do you know where they’re based?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s somewhere in West Sussex. They just gave me mobile numbers if I needed to contact them again.”

  “Could you let me have those numbers?”

  Jude couldn’t see any reason why not to. She had to go into her bedroom, towel wrapped around her, to find the scrap of paper where she’d written them down.

  “What is this about, Imogen? Can you tell me?” There was no answer. “I mean, do you have some information that you reckon can get your father off the hook?”

  “Yes,” the girl replied. “Yes, I do.” And she rang off.

  Which was, in equal measure, intriguing and frustrating.

  Carole Seddon was equally restless that Monday evening, and partly for the same reasons. Though she hadn’t met him, she too was upset by the thought that Alec Potton was the police’s prime suspect. Her unease derived, however, not from a conviction of his innocence, but from the recognition that he was quite possibly guilty.

  If he was, the case was at an end. Carole would lose the mental displacement activity offered by picking apart its details and trying to construct chains of logic from them.

  And she’d be left with nothing to occupy her brain but the Times crossword, and anxieties about the state of her son’s marriage.

  Then she remembered, rather guiltily, something else she should be worried about. Given the sudden access of emotion she had felt when she thought Ted Crisp’s life to be threatened, she had shown very little interest in his medical progress since the attack. She called his private number, the phone in his scruffy flat above the bar.

  There was no reply. She let the phone ring and ring, in case he was in the bath or something, and then had a moment of panic. Maybe the wound had reopened. Maybe he was lying in bed, drowning in blood, his voice too feeble to summon help.

  She dialled the number of the pub itself. On the third ring her call was answered. “Crown and Anchor,” said the unmistakable voice of Ted Crisp over a hubbub, which, by Fethering’s standards, was almost raucous.

  “Ah. Er, Ted…it’s me, Carole.”

  “Right, and what can I do you for? Want to order tonight’s special. It’s a prawn curry, served with rice and poppadoms.” Following Jude’s example, Carole had sometimes been known to order her meal before leaving home when she was eating at the Crown and Anchor.

  �
�No, I’m not coming down to the pub tonight.”

  “Oh, well, what is it? Sharpish, please, “cause we’re chocker in here tonight.”

  “I just…”

  “Mm?”

  “I just rang to see how you are.”

  “In what way?”

  “I mean, after being stabbed yesterday, whether you’d taken any time off or seen the doctor or…”

  “Bloody hell, Carole, it was only a scratch. I’m feeling fine. And now look, I’ve got customers clamouring for pints, so sorry, got to ring off,” he said, and immediately did so.

  Leaving Carole feeling very foolish indeed, and wishing she had even more control over her emotions.

  “Is your name Jude?”

  “Yes.” She had just subsided into one of the sitting room’s shapeless sofas with a plate of one of her favourite Thai chicken and cashew recipes. “Would you mind calling me back? I’m just eating my supper.”

  “I don’t care what you’re doing!” The voice of the woman at the end of the line was extremely angry. “I want to know what you’ve been saying to my daughter.”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who your daughter is.”

  “My name’s Hilary Potton. My daughter’s name’s Imogen. Come on, don’t deny that you know her.”

  “I’m not denying that I know her. She rang me earlier this evening.”

  “She rang you, did she? Are you sure you didn’t ring her, to put vicious and hurtful ideas into her head?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Potton, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do, Jude.” She’d never heard her name invested with quite so much venom. “You’ve been encouraging her in these stupid, harmful fantasies.”

  “I’m still not with you.”

  “Do you deny that you gave my daughter the names of the detectives involved in the investigation of Walter Fleet’s murder?”