The Corpse on the Court

by Simon Brett

  ‘Yes. I’m very grateful for—’

  ‘Then why’re you looking so bloody disapproving?’

  ‘I’m not deliberately doing it. I just think,’ Carole confessed, ‘that I’ve got the kind of face that does rather . . . tend to look disapproving.’

  Donna Grodsky looked at her and then suddenly burst out laughing. ‘I think you’re right, you know. You’ve hit the nail bang on the head there. You were born looking disapproving, weren’t you?’ She looked down sharply to the buggy where Kyle was starting to move his little arms. ‘Better get a move on with the eating. He’ll be waking up in a few minutes. Then he’ll want to be picked up and have his bottle.’

  ‘Do you mind if we get on with the questions too?’ asked Carole.

  ‘Not if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why should I mind?’

  ‘Well, my mum always told me – and I’m sure your mummy told you, and all – that it was bad manners for me to talk with my mouth full.’

  Carole realized that she was being sent up. She grinned. Donna grinned back. Maybe there had started to be something of a bond between them.

  ‘The obvious next question,’ said Carole, ‘is whether you have any idea whether Marina really did have a boyfriend and if so, who he was.’

  ‘I agree,’ Donna replied through a mouthful of steak and onion rings. ‘That is the obvious question. And the answer is, I don’t know. Marina never gave me any name or anything like that. But I think I know the kind of boyfriend she would have liked to have.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Listen, Carole, I don’t know if you know about where Marina come from . . .’

  ‘Her mother told me about her being found in a rubber dinghy.’

  ‘Yeah, so you know the basics. Anyway, Marina was convinced that her real parents were Russian. That’s why she was drawn to me. As you might have deduced from my surname, I am not one hundred per cent through-and-through British. My dad was a Russian sailor, came home to see my mum between trips off round the world. Well, he did for a while. Then he buggered off, rather in the manner of Kyle’s Dad. Do you detect a pattern here, Carole?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure what you—’

  ‘It’s a pattern called men, that’s what it is.’

  The baby in the buggy was beginning to twitch and make little grunting noises. Carole didn’t have the young mother’s undivided attention for a lot longer.

  ‘So are you saying that Marina had a Russian boyfriend?’

  ‘No, but I’m saying if she was looking for a boyfriend, she’d have tried to link up with Brighton’s Russian community.’

  ‘Is there much of a Russian community in Brighton?’

  ‘A bit, yeah. There is in most big cities. You know, they’ve got their social clubs, that kind of thing. Restaurants, pubs they go to.’

  ‘Did Marina know about these places?’

  ‘I’d told her a bit, yes. My mum knew about them, from when she and my dad . . . well, we’re talking some time back obviously. Probably the places she knew had closed, but other ones had come along. Anyway, Marina was fascinated by all this stuff. She was convinced that she really was Russian and, well, if any Russian boy had come on to her, she’d have let him do anything to her.’

  ‘And did any Russian boy come on to her?’

  Donna Grodsky shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Did she mention any Russian boy’s name?’

  ‘She mentioned a few, but, look, I’m not going to remember them, am I? We’re talking over eight years ago.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t remember a name?’

  The girl screwed up her eyes with the effort of recollection. The lashes looked as if two large black moths had settled on her face. ‘Oh, there was one boy Marina talked about. Vladimir, I think . . . Vladimir . . . oh, God, what was the surname? Mind you, I don’t know if he even existed. Marina was a great one for her fantasies. Lived in a kind of dream world, you know, where somehow her Russian heritage was going to claim her back at some point. I took everything she said with a large sack-load of salt.’

  ‘Vladimir . . .? Vladimir . . .?’ prompted Carole patiently, hoping to stir Donna’s memory for a second name.

  But she was only rewarded by a shake of the head and the eyes reopening. ‘No, it’s gone.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know the name of—’

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know anything. It’s just, as I said, if I was trying to find out what’d happened to Marina, I’d check out the Russian connection.’

  ‘Right, thank you.’

  ‘And the other thing I’d check out,’ said Donna Grodsky as she swept up the juices of her steak with the last few chips, ‘is Marina’s Dad.’

  ‘Iain Holland?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I always thought he was a shifty bastard. And though he treated her like shit, Marina still kind of worshipped him.’

  ‘Susan said she was as rude and bolshie to him as she was to her.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she didn’t worship him. There’s something about fathers and daughters. My dad treated my mum like shit, treated me like shit, and all . . .’ The grotesquely long eyelashes tried to flick away tears. ‘Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to see him again. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss him.’

  Kyle was now wide awake and crying. Donna Grodsky shoved the last chip into her mouth and swigged down the remains of her third voddy and Coke. ‘Good timing, eh? God knows I’ve had enough practice. Oh, what’s the matter with Mum’s lovely boy then?’

  Carole, aware that the last sentence wasn’t addressed to her and that her time was very short, asked, ‘Do you have any way of contacting Iain Holland?’

  ‘Haven’t got an address or anything, but shouldn’t be too difficult to track him down.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s all over the local paper every week.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s a very important local councillor. New squeaky-clean wife, new squeaky-clean kids, new squeaky-clean social conscience. Oh yes, round Brighton, Iain Holland is very definitely a pillar of the community.’

  Carole Seddon drove back to Fethering, sedately careful in her Renault, with three strong impressions. One, that Donna Grodsky was an extremely intelligent young woman. Two, that she was also a very good mother. And three, that the prices in the George’s Head in Moulsecoomb were really very reasonable.

  And she didn’t at all regret the twenty-pound note she had pressed into the girl’s hand as they parted.

  EIGHTEEN

  Jude was still in a bad way. She’d had two clients booked in for sessions on the Monday morning, but postponed both of them. She knew from experience that healing required all her focus and energy. When she was preoccupied with something else it just didn’t work.

  And she felt bad about what was preoccupying her. The laid-back manner and serenity she displayed to the world were genuine, but they had not come to her without effort. Though the carapace she had built around herself was less instantly visible than Carole’s, she too had created a protective layer to keep her from the worst excesses of her emotions. And one of the ways in which she had shielded herself was by not falling in love.

  There had been a good few lovers in Jude’s past – though not as many as her next-door neighbour fantasised that there were. And of course there had been the two marriages. But since she’d moved to Fethering her life had been quieter. She’d indulged in the odd one-night stand, the occasional nostalgic coupling with an ex-boyfriend, and then she had nursed a former lover, Laurence Hawker, till his death from cancer. But that period of her life with Laurence, though painful, had had an elegiac quality to it. Not the heady mania of a new love affair.

  But that was what she had tumbled straight into with Piers Targett, and now Jude felt stupid for having been so precipitate. Both of them knew that there were stories from their pasts that must at some point be told. But they were bot
h so enjoying the moment that they didn’t want to spoil it. For Jude and Piers love had come first; getting to know each other could wait.

  Not any more. Jude had gone over again and again the scene with Piers and Jonquil Targett. His wife had spoken of ‘the house we jointly own’. Did that mean they still cohabited there? Was that why Piers had hardly mentioned the place to Jude? And why he had made no attempt to invite her there?

  On the other hand, the Goffham cottage’s state of neglect did not suggest that it was regularly occupied. So maybe Jonquil Targett’s arrival there on the Saturday had just been a coincidence? Or maybe Piers had summoned her there to have a final confrontation, to get her agreement to his putting their shared property on the market?

  Jude tried not to dwell on it, but she couldn’t help remembering what Piers had been talking about just before Jonquil’s arrival. He’d said that what made him want finally to sell the house was having met her. Jude. He wanted to ‘close that chapter’ of his life. Did that mean he was looking forward to a new life that included her?

  These thoughts circled infuriatingly round and round in her head and she despised herself for letting them. It was so unlike her. This wasn’t the Jude she felt comfortable with, the strong Jude she had so carefully constructed over the years. She hated behaving like a snivelling schoolgirl.

  Shilly-shallying wasn’t in her nature. Her instinct was to get everything out in the open, have a confrontation if necessary, but at least not bottle things up. A hundred times on the Sunday she had contemplated just picking up her phone and ringing Piers. But each time she restrained herself, thinking, no, the ball’s in his court. When he’s sorted out whatever he needs to sort out with his wife, then he’ll get back to me.

  By the Monday morning the temptation to ring Piers hadn’t weakened. In fact, through Jude’s largely sleepless night it had got stronger. But still she resisted it.

  She was hugely relieved, though, when mid-morning the phone rang. She pounced on it, feeling sure it must finally be Piers.

  It wasn’t. The voice was the extremely cultured one of a mature woman who had been to all the right schools and moved in all the right circles.

  ‘Good morning. Is that Jude?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Felicity Budgen. We met at Lockleigh House tennis court during the Secretary’s Cup.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but it’s in connection with dear Reggie Playfair’s death.’ Felicity Budgen was far too genteel to use the expression ‘poor old bugger’.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Now, Oenone Playfair’s a very dear friend of mine, and I understand from her that you were actually with Piers Targett when he discovered poor Reggie’s body . . .’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘I’m so sorry you had to experience that. It must have been a terrible shock.’ She spoke with the practised empathy of an ambassador’s wife comforting the bereaved.

  ‘Yes, it was a shock, but don’t worry, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear that. Now, I don’t know whether you know, Jude, but Reggie’s funeral is on Thursday.’

  ‘Yes, I had heard.’

  ‘I don’t know whether you’ll be coming with Piers . . .?’

  No need for Jude to say that the two of them were currently not communicating. ‘He hasn’t mentioned it. And it’s not as if I knew Reggie Playfair well. Just met him very briefly on that Sunday.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, needless to say, Oenone’s up to her ears with arrangements for the funeral, and I’m trying to take any burdens I can off her back.’ There was a silence, as if the woman was making preparations for her next sentence. ‘Now there is one thing that’s worrying Oenone and, as I say, she’s got more than enough on her plate at the moment, so I’m making enquiries on her behalf.’

  Jude had had enough of this diplomatic circumlocution. ‘What’s it about?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s about Reggie Playfair’s mobile phone.’

  That wretched mobile phone. There seemed to be no way of escaping the subject.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, Oenone hasn’t been able to find the thing. She’s checked through Reggie’s belongings that came back from the hospital, and she’s looked through his car. She’d got George Hazlitt to check out around the tennis court. No sign of it. So I was just wondering whether you actually saw a mobile phone near Reggie’s body . . . you know, when you . . .’ Graciously Felicity Budgen didn’t spell out the details.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t see any sign of it.’

  ‘I thought that would probably be the case, but it was worth asking. As I say, anything that can be done to save Oenone further distress . . .’

  ‘Of course.’ Jude had a moment of hesitation before she went on, ‘It might be worth asking Piers. I wasn’t with him all the time when we were at the court. He might have seen something I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, what a very good idea. I’ll give him a call.’ But Felicity Budgen didn’t sound as if that would be the first thing on her agenda. ‘Anyway, it’s been a pleasure to talk to you, Jude. And I probably won’t see you Thursday . . .?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘No. Well, hope to see you round the tennis court with Piers on another occasion.’

  I wouldn’t count on it, thought Jude bitterly.

  The call she was waiting for came through late that afternoon, by which time she had to some extent got her head together. She had done some special yoga exercises, which calmed her, and by the end of them she’d reconciled herself to the idea that she was never going to see Piers Targett again. The thought didn’t make her happy, but at least it was the first broad stroke of the thick black line she was determined to draw under the whole episode.

  Then Piers phoned her and her embryonic defences crumbled instantly.

  ‘“I can explain”’, he quoted ironically. ‘I’m sorry, Jude, but I can’t let the last words you ever hear from me be the cliché response of every guilty husband in every dreadful farce ever written – “I can explain”.’

  His description so exactly matched what she had thought of the words when he’d said them on the Saturday afternoon that Jude couldn’t prevent the eruption of a small giggle. It was also relief, relief at finally hearing his voice after the torture of the previous days.

  ‘But can you?’ she asked.

  ‘Explain? Well, I can give you some relevant information.’

  ‘Something which has been rather lacking from you since we first met.’

  ‘Mea culpa. On the other hand, I don’t think you can be completely exonerated from the same charge.’

  ‘Fair enough. I agree, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

  ‘Well, maybe we should get together and barter chunks of our pasts . . .?’

  Two minutes before Jude had been determined that she would never see Piers Targett again. But it didn’t take long for her to say, ‘I think that’d be a very good idea.’

  ‘Where? Some kind of neutral ground? A pub? A bar?’

  ‘No.’ Jude felt too emotionally fragile to conduct their next meeting in public. ‘You come round here.’

  NINETEEN

  ‘The fact is that Jonquil is bipolar,’ said Piers. ‘The condition’s kind of contained so long as she takes her medication, but I’m afraid she’s sometimes very perverse about taking her medication.’

  ‘But are you still married to her?’ asked Jude.

  ‘Yes. I’ve never denied I am.’

  ‘I meant, are you still cohabiting?’

  ‘What, at the house in Goffham? God, no. Neither of us lives there. Surely you could see that from the state of the place?’

  ‘Then why were you there?’

  ‘For the reasons I told you. Look, I’m not a liar, Jude. I told you I was down there to get on to an estate agent, to get the place on the market as soon as possible – and that’s true.’

  ‘All right
, let’s change the question a little. Why was Jonquil there?’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was a silence. They hadn’t touched since Piers arrived at Woodside Cottage, not a peck on the cheek or even a handshake, but Jude could still feel the magnetism of his presence. Slowly he answered her.

  ‘Jonquil, as I say, is very volatile. She can agree to something one day and then totally disagree the next. For a long time I’ve been trying to get her to agree to the sale of the Goffham house. But she’s kept being resistant to the idea.’

  ‘Is that because she thinks it represents your marriage? That once that’s sold, it will be a kind of acknowledgement that the marriage is really over?’

  ‘God, no. Jonquil was the one who wanted the marriage over, at least initially. She was the one who kept on having affairs and saying how claustrophobic she felt in the relationship. For a long time I thought I could somehow still make it work.’

  ‘And do you still think that, Piers?’

  ‘No. For years now I’ve really known that it was over. But I dithered. Because of her mental state, Jonquil can be very vulnerable at times. I didn’t want to do anything that might push her over the edge.’

  ‘What do you mean by “push her over the edge”?’

  ‘I mean: make her do something stupid.’

  ‘And you’re using “do something stupid” in the traditional sense of attempting suicide?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Jonquil has attempted suicide before?’ He nodded. ‘Genuine attempts, actually trying to kill herself, or just as a means of gaining attention?’

  ‘In retrospect I’d have said the latter. But that didn’t make them any less scary at the time. And didn’t make me feel any less guilty.’

  Of course it was going to be true, thought Jude again, that nobody gets to our age without accumulating baggage. And it seemed like Piers Targett had got a serious amount of baggage. ‘You still haven’t told me why Jonquil came to the house on Saturday,’ she reminded him.