by Simon Brett
‘Here we go,’ said Jude, as the signature tune for the local news started.
And another cue had slipped past.
The news presenter had never quite got over being described as ‘vivacious’ in a school report. Probably at some point she’d also been said to have a ‘bubbly personality’. As a result her lip and eyebrow movements were far too big for the television screen.
‘Further to our report at the weekend of human remains being found near the West Sussex village of Weldisham, at a press conference today police . . .’
She hadn’t much more to tell than they already knew. The skeleton was of a woman, aged between thirty and fifty, and she was reckoned to have died at least five years before. Police forensic investigations were continuing.
There was a clip from the news conference. As ever on the local bulletin, it was too short to have any meaning. Carole had a moment of surprise not to see Detective Sergeant Baylis on the screen, but quickly rationalized his absence. He was too junior in the investigation for such a role.
The detective inspector leading the inquiry, a face unfamiliar to her, said how committed the police were to finding out who the dead woman was and what had happened to her.
Then the presenter moved bumptiously on to introduce an item about a Jack Russell terrier in Gosport who had learned to use the cat-flap.
‘It seems to me that there isn’t a case,’ said Ted Crisp, holding a pint glass he’d just cleaned up to the light.
‘Oh, come on. There are the bones,’ Jude insisted. ‘They’re real. They once belonged to someone.’
‘Still do belong to someone, I suppose . . . depending of course on your religious persuasion. But the way I see it, there was this girl in Weldisham who everyone thought had disappeared, and so long as no one knew to the contrary, there might have been a link between her and what Carole found in the barn. But now you’ve lost that link, you’re back to the much more likely scenario – that the bones have nothing to do with anyone in this area.’
‘Surely—’
‘No, listen, young Jude. In my long and varied career, I may have done a lot of things, but I’ve never actually committed a murder. Wanted to a few times, maybe, but I never succumbed to the temptation. And the fact that my former wife’s still walking about is living proof of that. But even I – with my limited knowledge of murderers’ know-how – can work out that if I had topped someone, I’d want to put as much distance as I could between me and the body. So it’s much more likely that Carole’s bones were paying their first visit to Weldisham – first visit to West Sussex, quite possibly.
‘This is how I see it. You kill someone in Brixton, say . . . Don’t know what – gangland turf war, drugs, whatever. Well, once you’ve done that, if you got any sense, first thing you do is get the evidence away from Brixton. South Downs, you think, that sounds nice, miles from anywhere. Dump the remains on the South Downs and scarper back home to Brixton quick as you can. That’s what I’d do.’
Carole felt dispirited. For a start, what Ted Crisp was saying was probably true. But also there was the way he was behaving towards her. Exactly as he always had in the past. She felt stupid for her misinterpretation of his manner to her last Friday, and even more stupid about the thoughts she had since allowed to flow from that encounter. If anything, Ted was paying more attention to Jude than he was to her.
But that was always going to be the case. Jude was more outgoing than she could ever be. People responded to Jude. They found her fun to be with. They found her sexy.
Carole had long since written off the possibility that anyone would ever find her sexy.
Anyway, Ted Crisp was very far from her type of man. He was scruffy, possibly not even very clean. His hair and beard looked beyond hairdressers’ help. And he had no intellectual credentials. A publican who had formerly been a stand-up comedian. He was hardly the kind of man with whom Carole could see herself swapping clues from the Times crossword.
Jude, needless to say, wasn’t cast down by Ted’s arguments. ‘No, there’s more to it. Let’s go with your murderer from Brixton, if you like . . . OK, all he knows about the South Downs is that they’re a long way away from Brixton . . . So he drives down here, body in the boot, and he goes by chance up the lane to Weldisham, and once he’s there he drives off into the wild, and by chance he finds this barn in the middle of nowhere. “Ooh,” he thinks, “what a great hiding place for my body.” Sorry, Ted, it doesn’t work for me.’
In spite of herself, Carole had become caught up in the argument. ‘What’s more, where did he find fertilizer bags in Brixton? The fertilizer bags are the most interesting feature of the case.’
Ted opened his mouth.
‘And before you say anything, I am absolutely certain there is a case. Those fertilizer bags give us two important pieces of information. One, they possibly connect the bones with this area. Two – and this is more significant – they prove that the bones had been moved. Which also raises the possibility that two people could have been involved – one who committed the murder years ago and another who, at a later date, moved the evidence so that it wouldn’t be found.’
‘Except,’ Jude pointed out, ‘the evidence was found. You found it, and you didn’t have much difficulty doing so. Which raises an even more interesting possibility . . .’
Carole caught the sparkle in Jude’s eye and nodded. ‘That the bones were moved deliberately so that they would be found.’
The two women turned triumphantly towards the landlord. He shook his shaggy head. ‘Too many guesses in that. Too many details we don’t know. We certainly don’t know there’s been a murder. No proof of that at all. The person whose flesh was once wrapped around those bones could easily have died in an accident . . . Could even have died a natural death, been ceremoniously buried with all the pomp and circumstance of religion, and then been dug up in the churchyard by some dog.’
‘A dog who then stacked up the bones in fertilizer bags?’ demanded Carole sceptically. ‘I must see if I can teach Gulliver that trick.’
‘No, no. I’m not saying that’s what happened. I accept that some human agency was involved in gift-wrapping the bones and popping them in the barn, but we have no means of knowing where the body came from or what happened to it.’
Jude chewed her lip. ‘Frustrating, isn’t it? I bet the police know more about it than we do.’
‘It is their job,’ Carole pointed out, reasonably enough.
‘Not fair,’ said Jude. ‘They have all those advantages of forensic labs and fingerprints and DNA and they still get it wrong most of the time.’
Ted Crisp chuckled. ‘Well, that’s good for you, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Police getting it wrong. If they got it right every time, wouldn’t be any openings for talented amateurs, would there?’ And the wink he gave seemed to be specifically targeted at Carole.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she said.
Jude pursed her lips and slowly shook her head. ‘If only we had one piece of information, we could move forward . . .’
‘What piece of information’s that?’ Ted pointed at their glasses. ‘Another large white wine in there, is it, Jude?’
‘Yeah, go for it.’
‘Carole?’
‘Certainly.’
As he turned to open a new wine bottle, he called over his shoulder, ‘Sorry, Jude. You said you needed one piece of information. What’s that then?’
‘Exactly how old the bones were. When the person died. The police must know that by now.’
‘Oh, well, why don’t you just ring up and ask them? Keep reading in the papers how user-friendly the police’re trying to make themselves, how touchy-feely. I’m sure they’d be only too pleased to share their laboratory reports with you.’
‘Ha, ha.’ Jude stuck her tongue out at him. ‘But if we did have that information, then we could concentrate our enquiries on that specific time . . . You know, find out who went missing from Weldisham round th
en.’
“‘Concentrate our enquiries”?’ Ted echoed. ‘Who do you think you are – the West Sussex Constabulary.’
‘No, we’re just interested, that’s all,’ said Carole.
‘Interested’s one way of putting it. Another’s bloody nosy.’
‘Don’t listen to him. We’ll find out what happened up in that village, don’t you worry.’ As she spoke, Jude patted her arm. Carole found the gesture of solidarity strangely reassuring. ‘Ooh, I’m starving,’ Jude went on. ‘I’m going to order something to eat. What about you?’
Carole’s freezer contained a clingfilm-wrapped portion of fish designated for that evening, but it wasn’t a plan that couldn’t be shelved. ‘Yes. Excellent idea.’
‘What’s good to eat tonight?’ asked Jude as Ted put their wine glasses down on the counter.
‘Apart from me?’ Ted Crisp simpered coyly, but, getting no reaction, moved quickly on. ‘You won’t go wrong with the Kate and Sidney.’
‘Sounds great to me. I’ll have one of those.’ Jude picked up her glass. ‘We’ll be sitting over there by the fire – OK?’
‘Sure,’ he called after her. ‘I’ll find you. Not exactly crowded out tonight, am I? And what are you going to eat, Carole?’
‘I think I’ll have the steak and kidney too.’
‘You won’t regret it. Two Kate and Sidneys, right.’ He was silent for a moment, holding her eye. Then he said, ‘Nice jumper you got on,’ before abruptly turning away to the kitchen.
As she moved across to join her friend, Carole Seddon thought that Ted Crisp wasn’t really such an unattractive man, after all.
Chapter Seventeen
It was clear from the moment Carole walked through the door on the Friday evening that the Forbeses were very used to giving dinner parties. There was a professionalism about the way Graham greeted her and took her coat which revealed him as a veteran of much entertaining. The beautifully tailored dark suit he wore had the look of a dinner jacket and his shoes were highly polished. In his various British Council postings, he must have played host to innumerable writers, musicians, dance groups, theatre-companies and conference delegates. An easy social manner was an essential qualification for the job.
In a way, that seemed to diminish Carole’s invitation a little. Through the week, part of her had thought that Graham Forbes had asked her to dinner because, on very brief acquaintance, he’d found her intelligent and interesting. But the professionalism of his manner suggested simply that someone had dropped out and she’d been invited to make up the numbers.
To counterbalance that, though, Carole felt a degree of relief. She’d always found it daunting to walk into a room full of people she did not know, and since David’s defection that anxiety had increased. But she knew a host as professional as Graham Forbes would ensure she was meticulously introduced to everyone and offered starting points for conversation.
Warren Lodge, situated next door to the Lutteridges’ Conyers, was one of the Weldisham middle range. Probably at first a farm worker’s cottage, it had grown organically, as different owners had added rooms and extensions. The result was a hotchpotch of architectural styles. Though the original cottage would have been flint-faced, the whole exterior had been pebble-dashed to give some kind of conformity.
If the outside was not a thing of beauty, inside the house breathed taste and character. It was full of mementoes of a long life spent mostly abroad. On the walls of the hall hung African masks and Japanese silk paintings. A plate rack supported dishes of Indian silver. Graham Forbes was a collector of beautiful things.
But the most treasured item in his collection was in the sitting room. Adoration glowed in his faded brown eyes as he introduced Carole to his wife, Irene.
She must have been a good twenty years younger than her husband. Dressed in a cheongsam of scarlet and gold, she was dwarfed by him. Her thick black hair was cut in a neat helmet and her eyes when she looked at Graham left no doubt that their adoration was mutual.
‘Hello, Carole. A great pleasure to meet you,’ she said as she stretched out her hand. Her English was excellent, but with that slight chopped-vowel quality that the Chinese have. ‘Now what will you have to drink?’
And she gestured elegantly to a stout woman in waitress uniform who stood by the drinks table. As Carole asked for a white wine, she looked again at her hostess.
There was no doubt about it. Irene Forbes was the woman Carole had encountered sobbing in St Michael and All Angels.
As anticipated, Graham Forbes’s social efficiency provided instant introductions to other guests. His task was made easier, though, by the fact that only one other couple had arrived. The man, thick-necked and crammed into a double-breasted suit, and his wife, vague and beaky, like a seabird blown off-course, were introduced as Harry and Jenny Grant. He was ruddy in complexion, she very pale, as if the husband had appropriated all of the available family colour.
‘I’m sure you’ll have seen some of Harry’s work around the area,’ said Graham Forbes jovially. ‘He’s been responsible for some of the biggest residential developments along the South Coast.’
‘Except in Weldisham.’ The man’s voice was big, as if his suit had difficulty holding that in too.
‘Except in Weldisham,’ Graham agreed, and chuckled, as at some private joke. The way Harry Grant smiled suggested it was a joke his host found funnier than he did.
This impression was confirmed, when Graham Forbes went off to answer the doorbell and Irene took Jenny aside to compliment her on what was in fact an over-fussy dress. ‘No, they don’t take to my ideas in Weldisham, Caroline,’ said Harry Grant grimly.
‘Carole.’
‘Sorry. Misheard. As I say, I’m not welcome here, professionally. What’s that thing about prophets being without honour in their own country?’
Carole was surprised. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d know the reference. Once again she reprimanded herself for her habit of too readily pigeonholing people. ‘Do you mean that you were actually brought up here?’
‘Yes, my father worked for the Estate. I lived here till I was twenty-four.’
‘So you must have known Detective Sergeant Baylis?’
‘Lennie Baylis? Sure. His family lived two doors along. We were at school together. Always out on the Downs, playing these elaborate war games, me, him and the others. Always building forts, we were, thinking up daft names for them. Fort Welling. Fort Pittsburgh. Fort Deathtrap.’
‘It must’ve been a great place to grow up.’
‘Mm.’ He didn’t look certain about that. ‘Quite spooky at times. There are some nasty places out on the Downs . . . Marshy bits . . . Chalk pits . . . Caves . . . We used to scare ourselves witless, some of the games we played. Tying each other up, that kind of stuff. Not very nice to each other, kids . . . Certainly we lot weren’t.’ With an effort, he pulled himself out of these recollections. ‘How do you come to know Lennie, though?’ For the first time there was a twinkle in his eye as he said, ‘You don’t look the sort to get on the wrong side of the law.’
Quickly Carole explained how she had met the sergeant.
‘Oh, it was you who found them, was it? Must’ve been a nasty moment.’
‘Bit of a shock, yes.’
‘I bet. I’m not surprised Lennie Baylis is interested, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you heard, but his mother ran off when he was round fifteen.’
‘I hadn’t heard that, no.’
‘The dad was a real brute, and no one blamed her for going. But, at the time . . .’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘There were people in the village said she’d never have left Lennie on his own and in fact . . . the old man must have done away with her.’
‘Good heavens. Was there a police investigation?’
‘No, it was just village gossip. Probably rubbish, like most village gossip. I’m sure Ma Baylis’d had enough, went off with some fancy man
and set up home at the other end of the country.’
‘But you’re suggesting it might have been her bones that I found?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying it’s a thought.’ He seemed to regret having gone so far, and steered the conversation in another direction. ‘I doubt if you were in much of a state to appreciate it, but that South Welling Barn’s a nice structure. Make a good conversion into a house. Except, of course, the Estate still owns that one, and they’d never agree to it. And if they ever did, then the Village Committee’d put a spanner in the works, like they keep doing with the other one.’
‘Other one?’
‘Don’t know if you’ve seen it, but there’s an old barn behind this house . . .’
‘I have seen it.’
‘Well, I bought that from the Estate six years back.’ Anger and frustration grew in his voice, as he went on, ‘And since I’ve been the owner, I’ve tried time and again to get planning permission to turn it into a house. I want to live there. But every time the planning inquiry comes up, the Village Committee gets it kicked out.’
‘Bad luck. You must rather regret your investment.’
‘No way. Even in that state, the barn’s appreciating by the minute.’ The thought of profit soothed his anger. ‘And we’ve now got a government who’s urging more housing in West Sussex. And new people get appointed to the County Council Planning Committee and . . . they may be persuaded to take a less blinkered view . . .
‘Oh no, don’t worry. I’ll get what I want in the end . . . Maybe even next week – there’s a planning meeting on Thursday. And when I do succeed and move into my own barn conversion in Weldisham . . . then people like Mr Graham Forbes may be laughing the other side of their faces, eh?’
He smiled triumphantly, just as the subject of his conversation approached, leading a thin-faced pinstriped man with the expression of someone who always counted his change.