The Fethering Mysteries 06; The Witness at the Wedding tfm-6

by Simon Brett

  “Yes,” Stephen agreed grimly, “I think it’s lucky I didn’t just drop you, love, and go straight on to the station with Mum.”

  Gaby nodded bravely. Carole could see on her face the strain of not letting her thoughts wander to what might have been.

  “The good thing about it is, though – ”

  “There’s a good thing, Stephen?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Mum. At least now we’ve got an up-to-date physical description of Michael Brewer.”

  “Have we, though?” asked Carole. “Couldn’t see much of his face, with that scarf wrapped round it. I could say that he was tall, thin and probably bearded – that’s about it. The light in the hall was pretty dim.”

  “Yes, I didn’t see much more. What about you, Gaby? He looked at you very closely. Would you be able to identify him in a police line-up?”

  His fiancée shook her head firmly, as if hoping to shake out unwelcome images. “I don’t know. I just thought he looked…” She decided not to pursue the thought, and shook her head again.

  “He looked what?” asked Carole. “Were you about to say he looked familiar?”

  “No. Well, he couldn’t be, could he? I could never have seen him. Not if he’s been in prison for the last thirty years.”

  Carole felt sure Gaby was leaving something unsaid, but the girl would not give any more.

  Stephen turned his attention to her flatmate. “You were with him for longest, Jenny. Did you see his face?”

  “No.” Onstage the word would have been a thrilling whisper. “He had the scarf on when I came in. He wassitting here waiting. At first he thought I was Gaby. I had to show him a credit card to prove I wasn’t. It was terrifying.”

  “Did he talk much?”

  “Hardly at all.”

  “Did he threaten you, Jenny? Say he’d hurt you?”

  “Not exactly. But I don’t think he would have been afraid to hurt me. There was something, I don’t know…obsessional about him.”

  “Was he carrying a weapon?”

  “I couldn’t see anything, but I got the impression that he probably was.”

  “Did he say anything that…” Stephen tried to find the right words, but ended up with the rather feeble “…anything that sort of seemed important?”

  “He said – ” Jenny dropped her voice to another audition-tingling whisper, “‘After the old man died, and the boy, Gaby had to be next’.”

  At these words, an involuntary shudder ran through their subject. Instinctively Stephen put his arm round his fiancée’s shoulder.

  At that moment the doorbell rang, and a couple of local detectives arrived, somewhat disgruntled at being summoned to a crime scene where no one had been hurt and nothing stolen. Stephen had to spend some time impressing on them the seriousness of the incident before they agreed to put a call through to Inspector Pollard of the Essex Police.

  By the time the two girls had been calmed, and the police arrived, the last train to Fethering was long gone. It was agreed that Stephen would stay in Pimlico to give Gaby moral support – and support through the police interrogations – while Carole took Gaby’s set of keys to Stephen’s house in Fulham. Carole was slightly miffed at not being on the scene for the next stage of the investigation, but knew the chances of her finding out anything further from the police were pretty minimal. So, obedient to her son’s instructions, she took the cab he had ordered for her round to his house.

  She had been there before, but only a couple of times. First, on a tour of inspection just after he’d bought the place, perhaps her first realization of quite how successful her son had become in his career (whatever that might be). And then second, a few months after that, for a rather formal and awkward Sunday lunch party to which he’d suddenly invited her (a social experiment that had not been repeated).

  But she remembered her way around. Following Stephen’s instructions, she found the drinks’ cabinet in the sitting room, and surprised herself by pouring a large Scotch. Her rationale was that she wasn’t going to sleep, anyway, so she might as well take something to calm her nerves.

  She took the drink upstairs with her, located the new toothbrush Stephen had described in the bathroom cupboard, had a perfunctory wash, and slipped under the crisp clean sheets of the spare room bed. She thought to herself how well organized her son was domestically, with his cleaning lady and his – Instantly, she was asleep.

  A creak of a floorboard woke her and she looked up to see Stephen just closing the door to her room.

  “Sorry, Mum, didn’t want to wake you. I had to come back to pick up a clean shirt and some papers I need for a meeting.”

  He lingered by the door, as if about to beat a hasty retreat, embarrassed by her presence in his house. “How’s Gaby?” asked Carole.

  The question made up his mind for him. He came back into the room. Carole patted the side of her bed, then immediately felt awkward because she only had on bra and pants under the duvet. She shouldn’t feel awkward with her own son. Or perhaps it was worse with her own son.

  Stephen sat down heavily on the bed beside her. He didn’t look as if he’d slept at all. With Gaby and Jenny to keep calm, not to mention questioning from the police, he probably hadn’t.

  “Oh, Gaby’s bearing up,” he said. “Inspector Pollard arrived in the early hours.”

  “All the way from Essex?”

  “Yes. They’re taking this very seriously indeed. No more pussy-footing around the subject. Pollard is now actually saying that Michael Brewer is their chief suspect for the two murders.”

  “God. Which makes it even worse. For Gaby, I mean, to think what might have happened last night if we hadn’t – ”

  “I don’t need to be told to think about it, Mum. I haven’t thought about anything else all night.”

  “Did Inspector Pollard let slip any reason why they’re so sure of Michael Brewer’s guilt?”

  “Yes. There’s a DNA match from both sites. They’ve still got samples on file from the Janine Buckley murder. There’s no question it’s him.”

  “But the cars were burnt out. How can you get DNA samples under those circumstances?”

  “Oh, Brewer left them very deliberately. He’s not trying to disguise the fact that he’s involved.”

  “You mean – he left calling cards?”

  “Almost literally that, Mum. Playing cards.”

  “What?”

  “At each crime scene, a playing card was found. They definitely belonged to Brewer. Traces of his DNA all over them.”

  The image came to Carole’s mind – something Jimmy Troop had described to Jude – of Michael Brewer in Parkhurst, playing endless silent games of patience. And, as he flicked over the cards, who could say what fantasies of vengeance had run through his head?

  Well, he’d revenged himself on Howard Martin. Though for what offence it was hard to imagine. Bazza’s death, Carole felt pretty sure, had not been for revenge, just a necessity to stop the boy talking about his involvement in Howard Martin’s. Leaving a playing card there was just an act of bravado – or maybe the intention had been to frighten someone.

  And now, Carole realized with sickening impact, this man was targeting her son’s fiancée. “So where’s Gaby now?”

  “At the flat. Pollard’s still with her and Jenny. Trying to get anything else he can out of them about Brewer. Seems like it’s becoming a full-scale manhunt.”

  “Well, he can’t stay hidden for long, can he? Nobody could. Least of all someone who’s spent the last thirty years in prison. The world must seem a pretty alien place to him, and I’d have thought it was hard for anyone to hide in an alien landscape.”

  “Hope you’re right. Until Brewer’s caught I’m just not going to relax about Gaby for a second. I feel I shouldn’t be going in to work today, but if I don’t – well, that’d be the equivalent to chucking in the job, the way things are going at the moment.”

  “Look, the police’re bound to catch Michael Brewer soon
.”

  “Yes,” her son said wearily. “Yes. I know, I know. And at least Gaby’s safe for today.”

  “What? Is Pollard taking her into protective custody?”

  “No, nothing like that is needed. Her Uncle Robert’s coming over to the flat. Pollard’s promised he won’t leave till Robert’s there, so at least I can feel vaguely relaxed for the rest of today.”

  He scraped his fingernails up through his greying hair. “Oh, I wish Gaby were out of this. Somewhere safe.”

  “Would she be safe in France?”

  He looked up at his mother in puzzlement. “Why France?”

  “Gaby has said on a couple of occasions that she’d like to see her grandmother in France before the wedding. Hoping to introduce you to the old lady.” Carole spread wide her hands. “Maybe this is the perfect opportunity?”

  “Wouldn’t work. I can’t possibly take the time off at the moment.”

  “Good idea, though, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Or it would be if we could get someone else to go with Gaby, to look after her.”

  “Do you know,” said Carole, “I think that could be arranged.”

  “I’ve done it.”

  Whatever Gita had done, Jude knew, as soon as she walked into Woodside Cottage, that it was something good. Her houseguest was wearing a biscuit-coloured trouser suit over a jade-coloured silk shirt, and inordinately pointy shoes. The clothes, Jude recognized, were new. That was a good sign. So was the fact that there was not a chink in Gita’s armour of make-up.

  “I rang one of the editors.”

  “Well done.”

  “Don’t know why I haven’t done it before. She’s a close friend, for God’s sake.”

  “You weren’t ready to do it before. You are now.”

  “Anyway, I pitched an idea to her, on the back of the research I’ve been doing for you and Carole.”

  “Oh?”

  “A major feature about lifers: how they manage when they’re finally released; how they come to terms with freedom; how the outside world comes to termswith them. The editor loved it. A definite commission. I’m going up to town to have lunch with her today, to talk it all through.”

  For the first time, Jude noticed Gita’s luggage on the sitting-room floor. Not just the scruffy nylon knapsack she had arrived with: a smart black wheelie suitcase stood beside it. Also new. However much the fee for the new commission was going to be, Gita had surely already overspent it. But that too was a good sign.

  Jude’s friend saw where she was looking. “Got the train into Chichester this morning. A major consumerist splurge.”

  “Very necessary. And very therapeutic.”

  “You bet.” Gita grinned. Suddenly she was a stunningly attractive woman. “And yes, the luggage does mean I’m about to get out of your hair.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “That’s very kind, Jude. And I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done. But it’s time. I need to go.”

  Ever since Gita arrived at Woodside Cottage, Jude had been longing to hear such a positive statement. But she still couldn’t help asking, “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Yes. I’ll go down again, I know. I’m in a manic phase at the moment – I can recognize that. But the medication does control the mood swings a bit. And I’ve rung other friends in London. I’m rebuilding my network. Yes, I’ll go down again, but I’ve got people I can turn to. I can take the burden off you.”

  “Gita, you haven’t been a burden.”

  “Oh no?” There was a twinkle in the journalist’s eye. “I know you very well, Jude. You volunteered to have me here, and you’ve supported me all the way. But you’ll be glad to have Woodside Cottage to yourself again.”

  Jude was not one for polite lies. She nodded a smiling acknowledgement of the truth.

  “Well, whenever you need me, I’m just at the end of a phone. You’ve got my mobile number?”

  “Of course I have.” Gita Millington looked at her watch. “Must go. The next Victoria train leaves from Fethering Station in a quarter of an hour. And, incidentally, I’m very glad to know that you’re there for me, but don’t forget that I’m also there for you. I’m not expecting you to need me as an emotional support – though if you do, I’m more than ready to take on that role – but if you and Carole need any other research done…” she smiled as she echoed Jude’s words “…I’m just at the end of a phone. Incidentally…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been very good about not asking why you wanted that research done.”

  “You have indeed.”

  “But I can’t deny that it’s made me curious.”

  “You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t curious, Gita.”

  “No.” There was a silence. “I gather, from the fact that you’re not volunteering anything that I’m not going to get any more information at the moment.”

  “How right you are. I’m sorry, but what it’s allabout – well, it concerns Carole more than me. I don’t want to betray any confidences.”

  “No.” Gita quickly reconciled herself to the frustrations of ignorance. “But when everything’s sorted?”

  “When everything’s sorted, which I hope will be very soon, you will know the whole story.”

  “Thank you, Jude.”

  “And maybe you can get another story out of it. That true crime book you were talking about?”

  Gita grinned, accepting the thought. Then another quick look at her watch. “I must – Jude, I can’t begin to thank you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  And the two women enveloped each other in a huge hug.

  ∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧

  Thirty

  It had been Carole’s intention to leave Stephen’s house as early as possible, catching the first available train from Victoria to Fethering. After her son had hurried off to work, she was on her way out when she heard the phone ring. The thought of answering did not occur to her, but after Stephen’s recorded message, curiosity kept her listening to identify the caller.

  It was a male voice. “This is a message for Carole.”

  She was thunderstruck, like some haunted victim in a ghost story.

  “I don’t know if you are still there, but if you are, please pick up the phone.” With massive relief she had recognized the voice before he identified himself. “This is Robert Coleman. If you are there, please pick up the phone. Or if, by chance, you pick up this message later, please call me on – ”

  She picked up the phone. “Hello, this is Carole.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you. Listen, Stephen probably told you that I’m coming to London to be with Gaby. I was just wondering, if you’re still in town, whether you’d care to join us for lunch?”

  Carole’s immediate reaction was to say no, she hadto get back to Fethering and Gulliver. But she curbed this instinct. Jude had already seen to Gulliver that morning; she wouldn’t mind taking him out again, if necessary. And, if Robert was willing to talk about it, he probably knew more about the background to the Janine Buckley murder than anyone, except for Michael Brewer.

  Robert Coleman’s choice of venue was a club, not one of the patrician Pall Mall ones, but a sensible convenient meeting place for professional men and women, particularly those involved with law and order.

  Gaby looked much better than she had when Carole had last seen her. The colour had returned to her cheeks, and some of the verve to her personality. She seemed relaxed with her Uncle Robert. Like her mother, Gaby had always known him as a rock throughout her life, the one stable element in the insecurity of family life. And he responded to his niece’s affection. There was a palpable warmth between them.

  When they met, in the club’s rather severe, no-frills bar, Carole’s first question was about Marie. “Is she all right on her own in Harlow?”

  “She’s fine,” Robert reassured her. “Pollard’s got a man keeping an eye on her. Anyway, I don’t really think Marie’s at any r
isk.”

  His emphasis froze the gin and tonic on its way to Gaby’s lips. “Meaning I am?”

  “After last night,” he said grimly, “I think there can no longer be any doubt about that.”

  Carole thought it was time for a few straight questions. “Robert, you knew Michael Brewer well, didn’t you, before he was arrested for murder.”

  A nod of the head. “Which made it all the worse. Something like that’s ghastly, but when you find out the perpetrator is someone you thought of as a friend, well, that doesn’t make it any easier to take.”

  “I met someone in Fethering recently who was a school friend of Janine Buckley and Marie.”

  He didn’t seem surprised by the news. “It’s a small area. A lot of people never move far away from where they were born.”

  “Her name was Libby Pearson. Mean anything to you?” He shook his head. “Maybe Pearson’s her married name. Do you remember one of Marie’s friends called Libby?”

  Another shake of the head. “We are talking a long time ago, Carole. At the time I saw a lot of Marie’s school friends, but it was a very brief period of my life. I doubt if I’d even remember the name of Janine Buckley if circumstances had been different.” He was troubled by the memories the name prompted. “When I think she could now be a wife and mother, a grandmother even, if Michael Brewer hadn’t…” His head shook again in pained disbelief.

  “Libby Pearson talked about a party at your parents’ house.”

  “Goodness, she’s got a long memory. When was this supposed to have been?”

  “1973, I should think. Your parents were apparently away in France.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells with me. So, what does this Libby say about that clearly unmemorable social event?”