by Simon Brett
The lack of response to Martina’s speech suggested that her victim had been gagged or otherwise incapacitated and, as Jude got close enough to peer through the slit of the door, this was confirmed. Connie was cowering in an old chair, a thin white towel tied tightly around her mouth. Her jaws moved as if she was trying to speak, but no sound came out. Ominously, the dome of a hair dryer loomed over her head.
“So there’s a good cause of guilt for you, Connie. You start an affair with a married man and what effect does it have? An innocent girl gets killed. The blood of Kyra Bartos is on your hands, and for that reason I’ll not feel so much guilt about having your blood on my hands.”
Even through the towel, the whimper that Connie let out at that could be clearly heard. Jude knew she had to move quickly. Martina was still invisible to her, probably with her back to the door. She certainly wasn’t near the lead to the dryer, so if she was planning to replicate her previous murder method…
Jude decided quickly. She had to. If she burst in through the door, there was a good chance of knocking Martina off-balance, certainly of keeping her away from the electric flex. Jude put her shoulder down and barged forward.
She hadn’t thought of a gun. Nor, when the automatic was pointed at her, did she think of arguing with it. Instead, she sat obediently on the seat next to Connie’s.
“You, Jude. Of course, nosy Jude. Jude who so conveniently told me about my husband being seen here last Sunday. So now it will be three deaths you have caused, Connie. That’s what you get for stealing someone’s husband. And I’m afraid it will have to be your nosy fat friend who goes first.”
The gun was still pointing at Jude, but now Martina Rutherford brought up her other hand to steady it. Not one to mess about, thought Jude. Oh well, at least she’ll save me from rheumatoid arthritis.
What happened next was so quick that only later could Jude piece together the sequence of events.
The back door crashed open and Martin Rutherford burst into the room.
For a moment his wife’s aim wavered. Then she laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Martin. I’m not going to shoot you. You’re mine.”
Just as she steadied the automatic to target Jude’s chest, Martin leapt forward. In the small space the gunshot was hideously loud. He let out a gasp of pain and dropped to the floor. But in his hand he held the captured gun.
Martina let out some curse in her own language and rushed out of the front of the salon. As Connie and Jude crouched down with towels, trying to staunch the blood pumping from Martin’s shoulder, they heard the Jaguar screeching off into the night.
Carole and the police arrived almost simultaneously.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“The trouble is these days,” said Mim, “children don’t even learn the rudiments of politeness. Not even the rudiments. I mean, there was someone in our road the other day…not just visiting, he actually lives in the Shorelands Estate, where you’d have thought at the very least you’d get someone who was well brought-up…”
“You’d hope you would,” Theo agreed.
“…and this man said to me…Ooh, not so much off the top there, Connie. We don’t want you going round Fethering like a skinhead, do we, Wally?”
“No, Mim, we don’t.”
“Anyway, this man, he had the nerve to say to me…to me, mind, and you would have thought he could see I was someone who had been brought up with standards…and he said to me…”
Jude grinned across at her neighbour, as if to say, “See, I told you it was worth seeing.” Carole had not been keen on the idea of their having their hair cut at the same time, but the promised attraction of the Wally and Mim double act had won her round.
It was nearly three weeks after Martina Rutherford’s arrest, a Tuesday, five weeks to the day after the Grenstons’ last joint appointment. Fethering had settled down after its recent excitements, and, though well into October, the weather had remained so tranquil that there were dark mutterings about the melting of the polar ice-cap.
Apart from the fact that Nathan had been allowed to return to his family after only twenty-four hours of questioning, Jude had heard nothing of the Lockes. She would like to know for sure whether Bridget had returned to Rowley, but felt gloomily certain she had. She would also like to have heard that Rowley Locke’s recent experiences had made him less of a control freak, but didn’t feel much optimism about that either. All she really hoped was that Nathan got good A-levels and went to a university as far away from Fethering as possible. Then he would be able to develop his own personality.
The Grenstons’ haircuts were finally finished. At Mim’s insistence Connie had snipped a little more off above her husband’s ears—“don’t want him walking through Fethering looking like the Abdominal Snowman.” Theo waved a mirror around behind Mim’s head for her to check her flame-red Louise Brooks look. “There, you’ll have all the men flocking round, Mim.”
“Just like you do, Theo,” she said rather daringly.
He giggled prettily at the idea, then caught Carole’s eye and grinned.
Mim paid for the haircuts and carefully distributed the tips. While Theo was helping her into her coat, Wally sidled up to Jude and winked at her. “Our secret, eh?” he whispered.
“Our secret,” she confirmed. “Oh, and I was sorry to hear about Joe Bartos.”
“Yes, well, probably best. Not one for showing his feelings, but losing Krystina…that destroyed him. You know, there had been his previous family…then his second wife…I saw Jiri the night before he died. He said he was tired, very tired. He suffered a lot through his life. He never talked about such things, but I knew. And the next morning he just did not wake up. Joe had had enough of suffering. No, very sad, but he went quickly. How we all want to go, eh?”
“What’s he talking about then?” asked Mini, mentally scolding herself for letting her husband escape her surveillance even for a moment.
“I was talking about death,” he replied with some dignity.
“Oh, death,” she said dismissively. “We won’t have to worry about that for some time yet. Now, come on, Wally, are you coming or not? We can’t be wasting these good people’s time with all your idle chit-chat. Come along.”
“Usual appointments?” asked Connie. “Five weeks today for the two of you?”
“Please. ‘Bye, Theo. Lovely to see you, Connie.”
“And you, Mim. Goodbye, Wally.”
“Goodbye, Connie. And good luck with Marnie!”
“Who’s Marnie?” asked Jude, as she was settled into her chair.
“Oh.” Connie blushed prettily. “Just an idea Martin and I had. Still some way off yet, but, well…the Martin & Martina branding has got to go…given the circumstances…so I thought of calling the chain ‘Marnie’. It’s Martin and Connie put together.”
“As you are.”
“Exactly.”
“How is he?”
“On the mend. But he will be permanently disabled. Won’t be able to cut hair again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. I’ll cut the hair. He can run the business. Now…” She unpinned the shapeless topknot and ran her fingers through Jude’s long blonde hair, “…how would you like to have it today, Madame?”
“Today,” replied Jude, with a huge beam, “I would like to have it short.”
“Hooray! Did you hear that, Theo?”
“I did indeed. Well, well, well. Today’s clearly a day for taking a plunge.” He looked in the mirror at his client. “And what about yours, Madame? Are you going to take the plunge too? How would you like yours today?”
“Same shape, but shorter,” said Carole Seddon stolidly.
§
After Connie’s Clip Joint, they went to the Crown and Anchor for lunch. Ted Crisp recommended the Chilli con Carne with Rice. It was surprisingly delicious.
While they ate, they watched the landlord holding up his fingers and gleefully demonstrating something to a customer. “No, everyone gets
that wrong, you know. The fingers that all hairdressers use are…yes, the thumb, like you said. But the other one isn’t the middle finger. It’s the one between the middle finger and the little finger. And do you know, that’s the only one that moves. The thumb stays completely still.”
The customer was appropriately frustrated by getting it wrong. “So, deal was if I beat you, you buy a pint for Les here. All right?”
Les Constantine grinned in anticipation. The old shipwright had recently given up his regular booth for a seat at the bar. Now Ted had made him the recipient of his winnings on the hairdresser bet, there was a plentiful supply of free pints.
“Hey,” the landlord went on to his customer as he pulled the pint, “I must tell you…there’s this joke I heard. Polar Bear walks into a bar…”
Jude looked across at her friend, and grinned.
§
When Carole got back to High Tor, she went through the automatic processes of emptying the contents of the tumble dryer, folding her clothes and putting them away. She was interrupted by the phone. Picking up the receiver at her bedside, she heard Stephen’s voice. “Hello, Granny,” he said.
§
THE END