Fethering 08 (2007) - Death under the Dryer

by Simon Brett

  “She remembered one thing in particular. You said that Kyra Bartos deserved something, but not something as bad as what had happened to her.”

  “Did I? I honestly can’t remember. I was in such a terrible state. I mean, I’d left home that morning feeling sort of doomy, like it was going to be a bad day, and suddenly I’m at a murder scene and I’m being interviewed by the police and…Oh, it’s too, too ghastly,” she announced with relish.

  “What you said,” Jude persisted, “implied that you knew Kyra.”

  “I’d seen her around in the salon. She’d washed my hair a few times.”

  “No, that you knew more about her than that.”

  “How do you mean?” Either Sheena was very stupid or she was deliberately prevaricating.

  “You said ‘Though the poor girl may have deserved something, she didn’t deserve this.’ Now to me that implies that you knew something about the girl’s past, something about her behaviour, which meant that she deserved some kind of punishment.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I didn’t know her well. As I say, she just did my hair. But, you know, you often get chatting to the girls who wash your hair…”

  “Yes.”

  “And we were talking about men…” I bet I know who was doing most of the talking, thought Jude. “And she was saying that she’d got this boyfriend…”

  “Called Nathan Locke.”

  “I don’t remember her saying the name at the time, but from what I’ve heard since that must’ve been who she was talking about. Anyway, she said she didn’t know how serious it was and she didn’t want to get involved if it was likely to go pear-shaped. And she didn’t want to raise the boy’s expectations if the relationship wasn’t going to go the distance.”

  “That sounds eminently sensible. She didn’t deserve punishment for that.”

  “No, I agree. But we’re only talking about what she told me. You may change your mind when I tell you what I heard from another source.” She held her hands dramatically apart, asking Jude to let her pace her own narrative. “Anyway, I said to Kyra at the time that the only real test—or at least the first test of a relationship—has to be: is the sex any good? And do you know—she was amazingly reticent about that. I mean, I thought these kids nowadays were screwing everything in sight from the first flicker of puberty, but you wouldn’t have believed it from the prim way that girl Kyra talked about sex.”

  “Again, nothing wrong with that.”

  “Jude, will you please let me tell the story my way!”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Sheena was not a woman used to being crossed. Maybe another reason why her relationships with men hadn’t worked out.

  “All right, that was how Kyra talked to me, playing the little, shy, butter-wouldn’t-melt-between-her-legs girl. I heard a rather different story from Theo.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, she was actually out of the salon when he was doing my hair—I was trying strawberry blonde that time—and he said that young Kyra was ‘a right little cock-teaser’.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. Which was quite strong language from Theo. He usually hasn’t got a harsh word to say about anyone. But he said Kyra was leading this poor boyfriend of hers a terrible dance. You know, blowing hot and cold—ooh, unfortunate turn of phrase there perhaps. Theo said the boy was a really nice boy—yes, Nathan, he did mention the name Nathan—and that he deserved better than being messed around by ‘a right little cock-teaser’.”

  She seemed to relish repeating the phrase, and her penetrating whisper of it had prompted some uncomfortable reactions from worthy Fethering pensioners enjoying a Sunday drink at adjacent tables.

  “So Theo knew Nathan?”

  “Well, he’d at least talked to him. I can’t think that Kyra was going to describe herself as ‘a right little cock-teaser’.” The whisper was even louder this time. Old men cleared their throats and tried to avoid the eyes of their wives. “No, Theo clearly felt sorry for Nathan. He said it was awful how a good-looking boy like that could be messed around by some little…” The old men froze in anticipation, but in fact Sheena contented herself with ‘…tart.’

  “Hmm.” This did open up a new dimension. Jude was more inclined to accept Kyra’s own presentation of herself, as a young girl confused by her first love affair, than the alternative description reported by Sheena. But why should Theo be so violently anti the salon junior? Unless, of course, she was monopolizing the attention of the young man who he himself had his eye on…? It was a thought.

  Jude didn’t really think she was going to get a lot more useful information out of Sheena, and she was right. But that realization did not allow her to escape another hour of the woman’s self-dramatizing moaning. And keeping pace with Sheena’s drinking meant that she left the Crown and Anchor with an annoying and unnecessary headache.

  As she walked back via the beach to get some air, Jude reflected that she couldn’t have asked for a more indiscreet witness. Anything that Sheena knew about the case—however confidential—she would have been happy to blurt out. The trouble was that she didn’t know very much.

  Still, the thought she had inadvertently planted about Theo having an interest in Nathan…that would be worth following up.

  FIFTEEN

  “Hello. Is that Carole Seddon?” The voice was male and unfamiliar. It had a light, almost joshing quality, but with an undercurrent of tension.

  She confirmed her identity. It was about ten o’clock on the Monday morning. She had just had a very relieved call from Stephen. Gaby had spent a restful night. There had been no more bleeding and the baby was still moving as it should be. The only small cloud on his sunny horizon was that there were some worries about her blood pressure. The consultant wanted to keep her in for another twenty-four hours.

  The news had come as a relief to Carole too, but after she had put the phone down, she felt restless. The day stretched ahead of her without enough to fill it. A bit of housework, a light lunch with the Times crossword, another walk with Gulliver. She was a woman who needed things to fill her time. Even after all these years, she missed the imperative of setting off every morning to her job at the Home Office. She didn’t dare, hope that the arrival of her grandchild would give her much more to do. In spite of their oft-stated intentions to move to West Sussex, Stephen and Gaby still lived in London. Carole couldn’t see herself being used by them for childcare on a frequent basis. When Gaby went back to work at her theatrical agency, they’d get a nanny or a childminder. Which would of course be a blessing. Carole didn’t reckon her grandmaternal skills would turn out to be much more instinctive than her maternal skills had been. So her life would remain empty.

  Her sleuthing with Jude had helped to fill the void from time to time, but on their current case they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Once again she wished she was privy to what the police were doing, what was going on at the Major Crime Unit in Littlehampton, how far their enquiries had progressed. She felt isolated in the austere and sensible comfort of High Tor.

  “My name,” said the voice on the phone, “is Martin Rutherford.”

  “Ah.” That he should be calling was so unexpected that the monosyllable came out almost as a gasp. Still, she could no longer complain that nothing was happening on the case.

  “I’m the ex-husband of—”

  “I know who you are.”

  “I’m sorry to ring you out of the blue, but I hear that you saw me yesterday morning coming out of the back of Connie’s Clip Joint.”

  “Yes.” So Connie had done her stuff. The police had already been in touch with him.

  “Listen, I’m calling from the salon and it’s rather difficult to talk.”

  “Maybe we could meet?” Carole wasn’t going to let slip any opportunity to pursue the investigation.

  “I’d like that.” He sounded relieved. He must have been anticipating resistance. Little did he know how welcome his call had been.

  She suggested meeting in
the Crown and Anchor, but he didn’t have time that day to come so far. If she wouldn’t mind coming to see him…There was a Gaffe Nero just along the road from Martin & Martina.

  Carole readily assented and, pausing only to tell her neighbour of this new development, set off for Worthing in her neat little Renault.

  §

  Martin Rutherford was again wearing a charcoal linen suit—maybe it was a kind of Martin &Martina livery—but today’s shirt was very pale blue. He carried himself with a certain poise, though Carole could tell he was nervous. The fact that he’d arrived early for their eleven o’clock rendezvous was an indication of that, as well as the slight shake of his hand as he brought her cappuccino across to their table.

  He got straight down to business. “I gather you had the misfortune to be there when the poor kid’s body was discovered, Mrs Seddon.”

  “Yes, I did. And please call me Carole.”

  “Thank you.” That seemed to relax him a little. He’d been expecting a more adversarial attitude. “It must have been terrible for you. And for Connie too, of course,” he added, concern for his ex-wife apparently an afterthought.

  Carole didn’t say anything. As he was the one who had made contact, he must have some kind of agenda. She waited to hear what it was.

  “And you saw me yesterday morning.”

  “Yes. I had been taking my dog for a walk.”

  He smiled wryly. “Early risers in Fethering.” He paused hefore asking, “Did you inform the police?”

  “No. My friend Jude told Connie ahout it, and Connie said she would tell the police. Mind you, it could have been me who passed on the information. The detectives did ask me to keep them informed of anything I discovered that might have relevance to the murder case.”

  He gave a rueful nod. “Yes, of course. And you would have been absolutely right to do so. Though, as it happens, what I was doing at Connie’s Clip Joint had nothing to do with the murder case.”

  “I’m sorry. I could only react to what I saw, and I’m afraid to me it seemed suspicious. I know the state of affairs between you and Connie since the divorce.”

  “Do you?” He looked surprised.

  “Yes, she talked to me while she was doing my hair. She talked to my friend Jude as well. It sounded as though you are still very much in conflict…”

  “Well…”

  “…so I couldn’t imagine that you’d been at the salon to meet her…even assuming that she’d have been there on a Sunday morning.”

  “No. All right. I take your point.” He looked relieved, as though he’d been expecting her to say something worse.

  “So if you weren’t there with Connie’s knowledge, and since I assume you don’t still have any legal rights in the property…well, I came to the conclusion that you couldn’t have been there for any legitimate reason.”

  “You’re a very logical woman, Carole.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you why I was there.” And he did. He confirmed exactly the conjecture that Jude had spelled out to his ex-wife the day before. Kyra Bartos’s departure from the Worthing Martin & Martina salon had followed her resistance to his advances. He tried to make light of what had happened. “It was only in fun. Just jokey chatting-up, the kind of thing that goes on in the salon all the time, you know between the men and the girls.”

  Carole sat stone-faced during his attempt to laugh it off and, embarrassed, he continued his explanation. Kyra, he said, did not have much of a sense of humour and she took his playfulness more seriously than he had intended. So yes, there had been a bit of awkwardness about her leaving. And though, on one of the rare occasions when he’d spoken to Connie, she’d said something about the girl contemplating legal action, he’d never taken it seriously…until he’d heard what Jude had to say to him in Martin & Martina on the Saturday morning.

  “That made me think there was a real threat, and so I thought it was just possible that, if Kyra had actually got any information together or approached a solicitor or something, there might be a record of it left at Connie’s Clip Joint. I knew she had a fairly tense relationship with her father, so she was more likely to have kept that kind of documentation at the salon than at home.”

  He looked pleadingly up at Carole, offering himself to her judgement. “So that’s why I was there yesterday morning. I wasn’t thinking very rationally. I just got it into my head that it was worth trying. If the police had found anything which suggested Kyra was contemplating legal action against me…well, suddenly that would put me in the frame with a motive to do away with the girl.”

  “Yes,” Carole agreed implacably.

  “Which, for anyone who knows me, is an absolutely daft idea. If there’s any criticism ever made of me, it’s that I’m a bit soft. I haven’t got it in me to hurt anyone. It would just go against all my instincts.”

  “Hmm. Did your wife not think it was odd, you going off early yesterday morning?”

  “She would have done, I’m sure. I always give her exact details of where I’m going at any time. It’s necessary when you’re running a business together. But she’s away this weekend. Her mother lives in Prague and she’s not well…dying in fact, so Martina flies over there roughly once a month. She got a flight on Saturday afternoon and she’s coming back tomorrow.”

  “I see. So there was nothing to stop you making your illegal entry to Connie’s Clip Joint?”

  “No.” He sighed. “In retrospect, it would have been better if Martina had been at home. Then I wouldn’t have gone on such an insane wild goose chase. I didn’t find anything in the salon, needless to say. But I was in a very manic state, and I thought there was a chance, and I was desperate to do anything that would stop the police wanting to question me any further.”

  “Whereas in fact what you did has had exactly the opposite effect. The police now do want to question you about what you were doing at the salon yesterday morning.”

  “Yes. I thought at that time of the day I’d be safe. I didn’t reckon on you and your dog.”

  “Lucky I wasn’t taking my dog for a walk when the person who killed Kyra Bartos came out.”

  It had been a risk to make the connection so openly, but Martin Rutherford was smart enough to pick up her implication. “Look, I didn’t kill her. I don’t know whether any of the local gossip is suggesting that, but it’s absolutely untrue.”

  “As I’m sure you’ll be able to prove to the police.”

  “The police?” He sounded bewildered.

  “When they question you about your movements.”

  “Oh yes, yes, of course. Sorry. Bit slow there. No, it’ll be fine when I talk to the police.”

  “You mean you have an alibi?”

  “Not for when you saw me yesterday morning. But you know that. You saw me. There’s no way I can wriggle out of that and say I was somewhere else.”

  Carole pressed him. “But for the night of the murder? Do you have an alibi for then?”

  “Of course I do,” he replied confidently. But then he seemed to lose his nerve. “That is…”

  “What?”

  “Well, I…Look, I’m sorry, Carole, but I don’t have to tell you. When the police ask me, then of course I’ll tell them where I was that night.”

  “Fine,” she said, and then dared to add, “If the answer’s embarrassing…”

  “No, it’s not embarrassing.” He made a decision. “All right, I was at a conference that night. There’s a big annual one, the Brighton Hair and Nail Conference. I haven’t been there before, but this year I decided I should.”

  “Was Martina with you?”

  “No, it started on the Wednesday evening. Someone had to be around the salon, in case anything came up in any of the branches. So she stayed and I went to Brighton. Just stayed the one night.”

  It was an alibi that could be checked. On the other hand, it was not a totally watertight one. Brighton was not that far from Fethering. A determined murderer could eas
ily slip away from the conference hotel for a couple of hours to do what he had to do. Unless he could produce someone who could vouch for his attendance at the conference all night, the alibi was pretty worthless.

  But Carole didn’t say any of that. Indeed, she didn’t get the chance to. Martin Rutherford had finally got on to the real purpose of their meeting. “Listen, this whole situation’s very unfortunate. I’ve been stupid and, as a result, I’m going to have what I think could be quite a nasty grilling from the police.”

  If he was fishing for sympathy, Carole didn’t feel inclined to grant him any. She was surprised by how negative she felt towards Martin Rutherford. Connie was far from being a bosom pal, but Carole still had a lot of fellow feeling for her. The way Martin had behaved in their marriage—and indeed the way he continued to behave with girls like Kyra—was appalling. Carole felt empathy for Connie, the solidarity of divorcees who had been badly treated by men.

  “Anyway,” Martin went on, “that will be my punishment—and it serves me right.”

  “It’s possible,” said Carole waspishly, “that that won’t be all your punishment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d have thought, even if you used your keys to get into Connie’s Clip Joint yesterday…”

  “Which I did. Still got a set to the back door.”

  “Even if you did, you could be charged with breaking and entering.”

  The idea didn’t seem to worry him. “No, surely that’d only happen if Connie pressed charges. And she’d never do that.”

  “Don’t underestimate her.” And don’t underestimate how much you have hurt her and how vengeful she might be towards you, Carole thought.

  Martin still dismissed the idea of a criminal charge. “Well, that is not currently among my many worries. But look, Carole…now this business about my going to Connie’s Clip Joint yesterday is known to the police…and they’ll probably soon know about the reasons for Kyra’s dismissal too…could you please—you and your friend Jude—not say anything? I mean, don’t spread the news to anyone else.”

  “I had no intention of doing so,” said Carole sniffily.