by Simon Brett
“What?”
“I was talking at the party to some man, and he said that someone the Martins know has just been released from prison.”
“All right. Someone they know. Not someone in the family.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
He hiccoughed. He really was drunk.
“Anyway, lots of people end up in prison, for motoring offences or – ”
David shook his head. “This wasn’t a motoring offence. This man’s just been released after serving thirty years for murder.”
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Eleven
It was late by the time Carole managed to get rid of David. He had become increasingly maudlin, and even tried to be affectionate, which was absolutely the last thing she wanted. She was appalled when he tried to kiss her, and even more appalled by the fact that she felt an unwelcome flickering of responsive lust. He was so firmly out of her life that she didn’t want him encroaching even on its furthest margins.
Once she had finally ejected him, her mind was too full for sleep to come easily. Seeing David reanimated a whole complex of emotions that she hoped had been safely consigned to inert half-life. The fourteenth of September – the date when she had promised Stephen his parents would demonstrate what a mature, friendly relationship they had – loomed ever more threateningly ahead of her. And the worries David had voiced about Gaby’s family were also troubling, particularly as they echoed anxieties that she had not dared spell out to herself.
All she wanted to do was to snatch what sleep she could, get up at half past six, forgo breakfast, leave thehated hotel and set the Renault firmly on course for Fethering.
She was therefore annoyed, when the phone woke her at twenty to eight, to realize that she had overslept. It was Stephen. And he sounded very tense. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Howard. Gaby’s dad.”
“What? Has he been taken ill?”
“No. He’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean, Stephen?”
“A car was ordered to take him back after the party last night. He got into it, and that’s the last anyone saw of him. He never made it home.”
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Twelve
“Have you rung them?” asked Jude, as soon as she walked in from shopping.
“No.”
Gita spoke with defiant truculence. She was stretched over one of the draped sofas in the Woodside Cottage sitting room, but not in an attitude of relaxation. Her body was taut. She couldn’t get comfortable. The television was on, some lunchtime soap, but she didn’t seem able to concentrate on the screen.
“It’s a good idea.”
“I don’t know…”
“Yes, you do. You’re a professional journalist. You told me at breakfast that it was a good idea.”
“I know, but…”
“You woke up with the idea, you were full of it, you said it was the kind of feature you could write standing on your head, and there were at least half a dozen magazine editors who would snap it up.”
“Mm.”
“So why haven’t you rung any of them?”
“Because…” Gita leant forward and clasped her arms round her shins, making herself into a bundle ofmisery. “Because…I know I could have done it. I know the old me could have done it. I just don’t think – now all my confidence has gone – I don’t think I can do anything.”
She sounded so low, too abject even for tears. Instinctively Jude sat down on the sofa and enveloped her friend in a large hug. Gita’s body stayed tense. She sighed hopelessly. “I don’t think I am getting any better, you know, Jude.”
“You are, love. You are. You had the idea for the feature. That’s the first one you’ve had since you were ill.”
“Yes, but I still can’t follow it through.”
“You will. In time. Come on, you’ve just got to make one phone call.”
“I can’t. Oh, I’m sorry, Jude.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“There is. I know how sickeningly spineless I’m being. I know how infuriating I am. God, I bore myself the way I keep moaning on about the same things, round and round.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“And you have to keep saying the same things back at me.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“You must be sick to death of me.”
“I’m not, Gita. Because, you see, I have the advantage of you.”
“In what way?”
“I know you’re going to get better.”
Gita broke out into a little, despairing laugh. And then the tears came. Jude continued to hold her, as the body in her arms shook with the regular unloading of grief. It was all she could do, but probably also the most valuable thing she could do.
Calmly, over Gita’s heaving shoulders, Jude watched the lunchtime television news.
A man’s body had been found in a burnt-out car on the outskirts of Harlow in Essex.
Harlow, thought Jude. That’s where Carole’s just been. But it can’t have anything to do with her.
In her neat white Renault, driving down the M23 towards the South Coast, Carole heard the same news on the radio. And she had an awful feeling it might have something to do with her.
As soon as she got back to High Tor, she found a television news bulletin. Little was added to the information she already had. The body of a man had been found in a burnt-out car driven some way into Epping Forest off the B1393 road near Harlow. That was it. To Carole, in spite of the horror, it seemed appropriate, confirming her image of Epping Forest as a depository for the bodies of murder victims.
She rang Stephen on his mobile. He was still in Harlow. “I’m at the hotel. Gaby’s with her mother, but they didn’t want me there. Marie’s in a very nervous state.”
Even in the circumstances, Carole couldn’t help thinking, Marie’s always in a very nervous state. “Has there been any sign of Howard?”
“Well…” At the other end of the phone, Carole could hear her son swallow. “Mum, I think it’s going to be bad news.”
In her fever of anticipation she didn’t notice his use of ‘Mum’. “I heard something on the radio about a body in a burnt-out car in Epping Forest. Surely that wasn’t…?”
“It looks horribly as if it was. The police have been round to the flat. They haven’t got a positive identification yet, but they’ve said we should prepare ourselves for the worst.”
“Oh, God…”
“The body’s burnt beyond recognition, but apparently it’s the right sort of age. They’re going to have to check dental records, or perhaps even DNA – though that may not be easy, because, just to add to the confusion, Phil seems to have disappeared.”
“What?”
“Apparently he didn’t turn up for work this morning.”
“Stephen, what on earth’s going on?”
“If I knew that, I’d tell you. It just all seems extremely nasty.”
“But what were the circumstances? When was Howard last seen alive – I mean, assuming he’s not alive now?”
“Gaby and I didn’t actually see him leave, because we were saying goodbye to some other people, but, according to Robert, a car had been ordered for Howard; it arrived at the hotel, and he went off in it. That’s the last time he was seen. Then early this morning somebody reported this burnt-out car off the B1393.”
“Was it the same car Howard left the hotel in?”
“Can’t be certain, because nobody can remember exactly what kind of car came to collect him, but the police think it’s possible.”
“So…what? Did the car crash into a tree and burst into flames?”
“No. According to the police, except for the fire, the car appeared to be undamaged.”
“And” – Carole pieced the known facts together – “there was only one body in the car?”
&
nbsp; “Yes.”
“So what happened to the driver?”
“That, I would imagine, is the number-one question the police are currently asking. Who was driving the car.”
“And where is he now?”
The next day the police confirmed that the body found in the Essex lay-by was that of seventy-nine-year-old Howard Martin from Harlow. And he hadn’t been killed by the fire; he had been strangled before the car was set alight.
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Thirteen
When Carole received that news from Stephen, she knew she had to talk to Jude. On her own. But with Gita in residence at Woodside Cottage, dropping round unannounced was not as simple as usual. So she telephoned.
The timing was good. Gita had an appointment that day with her doctor in London. Jude had initially been reluctant to let her go on her own, but Gita had insisted. Jude, welcoming this new resolution in her friend, had not argued further. Though determined to be supportive, she could not deny that the task of continuously bolstering Gita’s seesawing confidence was an exhausting one.
Carole and Jude met at High Tor, and Carole was so full of her story that she forgot her normal rules for the protocol of hospitality and served coffee at the kitchen table. The salient facts didn’t take long to spell out.
“Poor kid.” Jude sighed at the end of the narration. “Gaby. She’s a very emotional girl. This is going to hit her hard.”
“It is. I mean, having an older father, she must always have been preparing herself for his death, but for that death to come so suddenly and like this – as you say, poor kid.”
“So it’s definitely a case of murder?”
“Yes. And not much attempt to make it look like anything else. Howard’s body was found in the back seat of the car. Maybe the murderer hoped the fire would be so fierce as to hide the fact that he was strangled, but I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Hm. From what you’ve said, Howard Martin sounded an amiable – even harmless – old guy.”
“He was. Mind you, I don’t really know anything about him, his personal history, even what job he did before he retired.”
Jude ran her fingers through her tousled blonde hair. “So why on earth would anyone have wanted to murder him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a gangland killing?” Carole hazarded.
“Oh, come on. You’re only saying that because it happened in Essex, and your image of Essex is as a seething hotbed of East End gangsters.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that – exactly. But I just can’t think of any other reason.”
“That’s because we have insufficient information.”
“No information might be more accurate. And a crime scene that’s rather a long way away from Fethering. I think we’re going to have our work cut out trying to solve this murder mystery.”
“You sound almost disappointed, Carole.”
“No, I don’t. I just…well, I feel so bad for Gaby’s sake. You know, she is almost family now.”
“Yes. She’s a sweet girl.”
“She didn’t say anything, you know, while you were being an osteopath for her?”
“I’m not an osteopath, Carole.”
“Well, whatever.”
“And there is a code of confidentiality between patient and therapist.”
“Yes, but – ”
“No ‘but’, Carole.” Jude sounded quite stern, then relented. “If there was anything she said that I thought might be relevant to her father’s death, then I’d tell you. But there isn’t.”
“Oh.”
“What we really need to find out is the identity of the driver who picked up Howard Martin from the hotel after the party.”
“I’d got that far,” said Carole tartly.
“Surely somebody must have seen him go? One of the other guests?”
“Yes, you’d have thought – oh dear.” Carole brought herself up short. “There was someone who saw Howard leave.”
And it was the last person in the world who she wanted to get back in touch with.
“Erm…hello?”
“David, it’s Carole,” she said brusquely.
“Oh, how nice to…erm…hear from you again.”
“You’ve heard about Howard?”
“Stephen rang me, yes.”
Carole had a momentary pang of jealousy. Had Stephen phoned his father before he’d phoned her? What was the pecking order between them? Resolutely she dismissed the unworthy thought.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Absolutely…erm…terrible.” Then, with one of his characteristic lunging changes of subject, he said, “Incidentally, I was discussing with Stephen the…erm…possibility of us having dinner.”
“What?”
“You, me, him and Gaby.”
“What are you talking about, David?”
“I suggested to Stephen that we should all meet up for dinner one evening. My treat. In a restaurant. I mean, my cooking’s all right for just me, but…erm…”
“David, we have far more important things to think about. Gaby’s father’s just been murdered.”
“Yes, but this dinner – ”
“I can’t think about dinners now,” Carole snapped. “You have no idea of a reason why Howard should have been killed, have you?”
“No. Well, I suppose…I don’t know. Maybe a…erm…mugging that went wrong?”
“Have the police spoken to you, David?”
“Why on earth should they speak to me?” He sounded shocked at the very idea.
“Well, you were at the party, and you said you saw Howard leave.”
“Yes.”
“So you must be one of the few people who actually saw the person who drove him away.”
“Ah.”
“Did you?”
“Well, I…erm…I saw the car.”
“What was it – an ordinary taxi?”
“I don’t think there was anything on it to show that it was a taxi. No illuminated sign, no writing on the side.”
“What make of car was it?”
“One of those smallish ones – you know – a Ford Escort or a Renault or a Peugeot. All cars look alike these days.”
“Colour?” asked Carole patiently.
“Reddish. Dull red. Quite battered. That’s the thing that struck me, really. I thought, what an incredibly beaten-up old car that is to be acting as a taxi.”
“Maybe, with hindsight, we could conclude that it wasn’t a taxi?”
“Maybe not.”
“You haven’t heard the make of the car that was burnt out, have you?”
“No. That hasn’t been…erm…specified in any of the news reports I’ve seen.”
“Hm. Now, David, the more important question – what about the driver?”
“What about him?”
“Did you get a good view of him?”
“No. I was in the hotel foyer. Howard had just gone outside, so I was looking through the glass doors, and it wasn’t very well lit out there.”
“So you got no impression of who was driving the car?”
“Not really. I think he had a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.”
“A man then. Was he young, or old?”
“Well, I sort of got the impression he was young. But maybe that was just because of the baseball cap.”
“Everyone in Essex wears baseball caps,” said Carole loftily.
“There do seem to be a lot of them, certainly.”
“So, from what you saw of this driver, you would say positively that he was young?”
“Ooh, no.” David had never been much good at saying anything positively.
“Then what did he look like?”
“Erm…No, I couldn’t tell you. Really couldn’t.”
“You’re going to be a fat lot of use to the police, aren’t you?”
“Carole, do you think they really will want to…erm…talk to me?”
“Almost defini
tely. I wouldn’t be surprised if they get on to me too. I should think they’d want to check with everyone who was at the engagement party.”
“Yes.”
“They are conducting a murder enquiry, after all.”
“Right.”
“In fact, David, I think you should get in touch with them voluntarily.”
“Why?”
“Public-spirited thing to do. You have information that may be vital to their enquiry. You’re a witness’. ‘Yes, but I didn’t witness much, did I?”
“No, not the way you told it to me, I admit you didn’t. But the police have ways of getting things out of witnesses.”
“Really?”
He sounded so anxious Carole couldn’t resist teasing him. “Hypnotism, truth drugs – other methods,” she concluded darkly.
“Oh dear,” said her ex-husband. “That doesn’t sound very…erm…pleasant.”
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Fourteen
“I think they need to get away, Mother.” Stephen was tense, so he’d returned to his formal mode of address, which was slightly disappointing.
“It must be dreadful for them,” said Carole.
“It is. The phone ringing continuously, reporters actually camping on their doorstep. Constant questioning from the police. Marie’s never been very strong emotionally. This is really tearing her apart.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Carole, trying to suppress her knee-jerk reaction to people who weren’t ‘strong emotionally’. In her view, emotional strength was purely a matter of willpower.
“And it’s putting a tremendous strain on Gaby, because she has to field all the phone calls, virtually be her mother’s minder twenty-four hours a day. So she’s got that on top of the grief and shock she’s feeling at her father’s death.”
“It must be tough for her, poor kid.” She wasn’t conscious that she was echoing Jude’s words. “Can’t her brother take part of the strain? Or has he still not turned up?”
“He’s around. Apparently the night after the partyhe continued drinking with some mates and crashed out on someone’s floor. There was nothing more sinister to his disappearance than a massive hangover.”