The Fethering Mysteries 08; Death under the Dryer tfm-8

by Simon Brett

  Much more likely that he was ashamed of you, Carole thought. “And neither of you ever met Kyra’s father?”

  “Oh no,” said Arnold.

  “Right.” Carole turned back to the dominant – not to say controlling – brother. “So, Rowley, your view would be that Nathan did spend some time with Kyra in the salon that evening, then, after he’d left, someone else came along and murdered her?”

  “That seems to me to be the most likely scenario, yes.”

  “Well, it looks as though all such speculations are going to be no more than speculations until the boy reappears and gives an account of himself.”

  Rowley Locke agreed.

  “And presumably…I’m sorry to ask you this, but I feel I have to…none of you have any idea where Nathan might have gone?”

  They all confirmed that they hadn’t. So, with assurances on both sides that they’d get in touch to share any further information that might come up, Carole left the house in Marine Villas and walked back the short way to High Tor – with an uncomfortable feeling that she had just been interrogated.

  ∨ Death under the Dryer ∧

  Seven

  Jude had borne Connie Rutherford’s advice in mind, and waited till the Thursday morning to contact Wally Grenston. She had been through various possible excuses for her call, but, not being by nature a devious person, had opted finally for the truth. “I was in Connie’s Clip Joint on Tuesday morning when you and your wife were having your hair done…”

  “Oh yes. You were waiting. Blonde lady, am I right?”

  “You are. Plumpish.”

  “Well covered, I would have said.”

  “You’re a gentleman, Wally.”

  “So I like to think.”

  “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve got rather interested in what happened to Kyra Bartos…how she came to be killed…”

  “You and the rest of Fethering.”

  “Yes, and you said something about the girl’s father…you know, as if you knew him…”

  “Right.” For the first time there was a note of caution in Wally Grenston’s voice.

  “I just wanted to follow up on that…find out more…ask a few questions…”

  “Are you some kind of journalist, Jude?”

  “No, I’m just…as I said…interested,” she finished lamely.

  “Interested in protecting the boy who’s supposed to have murdered her…or interested in finding out who really did it?”

  “Both. But why did you ask that question?”

  “I have my reasons. Tell you what – you want to talk, you can come round here. Straight away, though. And you have to be gone by quarter to twelve.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Jude.

  ♦

  “Hello?”

  Carole was taken aback. “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. I was just going to leave a message.” Then, aware of her daughter-in-law’s condition, she asked anxiously, “Are you all right, Gaby?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m not ill, I’m just pregnant.”

  “I know. But you being home in the middle of the day…”

  “Just taking a couple of days off to try and get the baby’s room sorted. Steve keeps saying he’s ‘going to do it at the weekend’, but his weekends seem to be as busy as his weeks at the moment.”

  “Yes.” Not for the first time, Carole wished she understood more about her son’s high-powered and extremely lucrative job. It was to do with money, and computers came into it too, but whenever Stephen tried to provide more detail on the subject, she found her mind glazing over. “And how long are you going to keep on working?”

  “Plan is to go till the end of the month. That’ll give me four weeks till the ETA.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Estimated Time of Arrival.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Twenty-eighth of October.” The date was engraved on Carole’s memory.

  “That’s assuming I can still reach across the desk to pick up my phone, and deal with all those penny-pinching producers.” Gaby worked as a theatrical agent. “I’m getting absolutely massive. Well, I was no sylph to start with.”

  The image of Gaby’s chubby body came into her mother-in-law’s mind. She hadn’t been showing much when they last met. Carole realized that that had been more than two months before. “It’d be lovely to meet up,” she said, rather guiltily.

  “Yes. We were saying that only last night.”

  “You and Stephen?”

  “Well, and David. He’d come round for supper.”

  “Ah.” Carole felt a pang of something that included jealousy. She had always worried about the post-divorce David being closer to Stephen than she was…or now being closer to Stephen and Gaby…soon perhaps to be the favoured grandparent to the forthcoming baby.

  “He was actually saying it was daft we hadn’t invited you last night as well. Sorry, we didn’t think, but it would have been a great idea.”

  No, it wouldn’t, was Carole’s immediate, but unspoken, reaction.

  “I mean, you both managed so well at the wedding. David was saying how great it was that the two of you could at last be together again without any strain.”

  Clearly, thought Carole, his recollection of the wedding was very different from hers. All that the prolonged exposure to her ex-husband had made her think was what a good idea the divorce had been. If she’d had her way, she would have liked a written guarantee that she’d never have to see David again for as long as she lived. But she knew Gaby – and particularly Stephen – were very keen on a rapprochement between the estranged parents. She could see their point of view. With the baby coming, it would be so much nicer to have family harmony, both grandparents coming together every time they visited the new arrival. But if that was Stephen and Gaby’s ambition, Carole was afraid they were going to be disappointed.

  “Well, it would be nice to meet up,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Was she being hypersensitive to detect a lack of enthusiasm in Gaby’s tone? Was she regarded as a ‘difficult’ mother-in-law? In private, did Stephen and his wife giggle about her? Did Gaby groan every time he said that they really ought to see his mother?

  “That’d be great,” the girl went on, still with not quite enough enthusiasm for her mother-in-law’s taste. “I’ll check with Steve. His diary’s always so much busier than mine. And then we’ll get back to you and sort out a date.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  After the phone call had finished, Carole felt restless. Though she had always loved Stephen, she still felt guilt for not being as maternal as she should have been. And now there was the challenge of forming a relationship with the next generation. She didn’t feel she’d been a great success with her own child. Would it be different if the baby was a girl? (Though Stephen and Gaby had had the opportunity at various scans to know the gender, they’d chosen not to.) For the millionth time in her life, Carole Seddon wished she could have a personality transplant.

  ♦

  Wally Grenston’s old face creased into a grin as he handed Jude the coffee. It was in a bone china cup with a delicate design of shrimp-pink and gold. On the saucer lay a small silver spoon whose thin handle ended in a wooden bead like a coffee bean. The sugar bowl and tongs were similarly decorated.

  The grin stayed as he sat back in his chair. “Let me enjoy this moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mim – that’s my wife…”

  “I saw her at the hairdresser’s.”

  “Yes. Well, she’s gone through her life imagining that, the minute her back’s turned, I am immediately entertaining some attractive woman…”

  “Ah.”

  “…and let me tell you, this is the first time it’s happened.”

  “Right.”

  He leaned forward a little. “Could you tell me something, Jude? Are you wearing lipstick?”

  “No. I very rarely wear any make-up.”

  “Oh
, dash it,” he said, with mild regret.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Just, if Mim came back, and she found a second coffee cup here, with lipstick on it…well, that really would set the cat among her pigeons.”

  “Do you want to upset her?”

  He was affronted by the suggestion. “Of course not. I adore the old bat. But it doesn’t do her any harm to be kept on her toes.”

  This seemed to him disproportionately amusing and, while he chuckled, Jude took in the room around her. The most striking thing was the number of awards it contained. In purpose-built chestnut-framed display cases stood cups, figurines, engraved glassware, abstract sculptures and calligraphed citations, all naming ‘Walter Grenston’ as their winner. Jude didn’t recognize any of the awards, but all their artwork seemed to imply success in the field of music, and this impression was confirmed by the white grand piano at the back of the room. The rest of the decor was busy and fussy; lots of little objects – photographs in elaborate silver frames, statuettes, vases and animals made of swirling coloured glass – were everywhere. Though her own sitting room at Woodside Cottage was equally cluttered, the impression could not have been more different. Every object in the Grenstons’ house looked as though it was dusted and had its alignment checked every hour on the hour.

  They lived in Shorelands, a large estate on the west side of Fethering, whose denizens had to comply with a daunting number of local regulations, policed by a committee of residents. People had to be extremely rich to live there, so clearly during his musical career Wally Grenston had collected money as well as awards. The house was on one of the Shorelands Estate’s prime sites, and its picture windows showed a perfectly maintained garden leading down to the sea. In fact, the openness of the English Channel seemed at odds with the claustrophobia of the overcrowded room, which might have been more suitably set in the depths of a middle-European forest.

  Having indulged his laughter to the full, Wally moved on to business. “So you wanted to know about Joe Bartos?”

  “Yes.”

  “And just to confirm again…you have no professional axe to grind here? This is out of pure curiosity?”

  “Murder makes everyone curious, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” The idea brought a new seriousness to his manner. “Though for many, murder has been a signal to stop curiosity. Don’t ask any questions. Play safe. Do not put your head above the parapet.”

  “Are you talking about during the war?”

  “A lot of things that were true during the war are still true now. People do not change…enough…sadly.”

  “You weren’t born in this country, were you?”

  He shook his head, unoffended by the question. As ever, Jude’s directness worked its magic.

  “No, I came here early in 1939, just before it all happened, but when it was already pretty clear what was going to happen. I was nineteen…one of the ones who got away.”

  “One of the lucky ones?”

  He smiled sadly. “I didn’t say that, did I? But, as things turned out, lucky, yes. I would rather have gone back to the world in which I grew up, but that world very soon ceased to exist, so there was nowhere to go back to.”

  “Are you talking about Germany?”

  “It was true of Germany as well, but that was not my country. My country – though some would say that a Jew does not really have his own country – is Czechoslovakia. Have you been there?”

  Jude nodded. “A couple of times. Before the…what did they call it?…‘Velvet Revolution’?”

  “They always have a new name for changes in my country. And they always have new changes. Once somebody renamed my country ‘The Protectorate of Bohemia ⁄ Moravia’. I tell you, Czechoslovakia has had more invasions and occupations than you have had hot dinners.” He chuckled, trying to shift himself out of an encroaching gloom. “You wanted to know about Joe Bartos…So, if you see yourself as an amateur sleuth…”

  “I didn’t say that I did.”

  “Then why else are you so interested in this murder?”

  “Well…”

  “Anyway, if you do see yourself as an amateur sleuth…you will no doubt have worked out how I know Joe Bartos…?”

  Jude shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m clearly not a very good amateur sleuth.”

  “No, you are not. Do you not know where the name ‘Bartos’ comes from?”

  “Spain, maybe…or…?”

  Wally Grenston shook his head and clicked his teeth in exasperation. “No, no. You think that because everyone here pronounces the name wrong. With an ‘s’ sound at the end. No, it’s pronounced ‘Bartosh’. The name is Czech.”

  “Ah. So you knew Kyra’s father back in Czechoslovakia?”

  “No, I met him in England. And not that long ago. In Brighton there is a club for people who originated in my country. I have met Jiri there once or twice.”

  “Jiri?”

  “His real name. When he comes to England, no one can pronounce it or spell it, so he settles for ‘Joe’. Makes life easier.”

  “Ah. And did you meet Kyra at the club too?”

  He shook his head. “Not at the club. I’ve met her in Connie’s salon, and then once or twice when I went to her father’s house. But I did not go there very often. Mim did not like me going to Jiri’s house.”

  Jude’s quizzical eyebrow was greeted by a huge laugh. “Mim does not like me going anywhere without her, remember? Does not like me out of her sight. She is afraid that, if she is not watching me, I am off serenading beautiful women.” With surprising ease for someone his age, he levered himself out of the armchair and crossed to the piano stool. His fingers instantly found the keys and started to play a wistful ballad. In a voice that was not really a singing voice, but which could still find the right weight and value of each word, he sang:

  There is no one I have ever wanted by my side.

  Just to have you with me is a source of pride,

  Knowing you’re the one in whom I can confide,

  Whenever I want to…

  Whenever I want you.

  There is nothing I have ever wanted more than this.

  Just to be beside you is the height of bliss,

  Knowing I can lean across and take a kiss,

  Whenever I want to…

  Whenever I want you!

  The song spiralled away in a little tinkling of notes.

  “Did you write that, Wally?”

  “Of course. And Mim sang it. A minor hit. I don’t think it would get far now on Pop Idol.”

  “It’s a beautiful tune.”

  “Oh yes, of course. All my tunes are beautiful.”

  “And sad.”

  “All my tunes are sad.” He was silent for a moment, then firmly closed the lid of the white piano and came back to sit opposite her. “So, what do you really want to know about Jiri Bartos?” He looked at his large old gold wristwatch. “We must be quick. I am about to lose my…” he smiled, “…window of opportunity.”

  “I really want to know about his relationship with his daughter. Someone suggested that he was quite a difficult father.”

  “Difficult…? Strong…?” The old man opened out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Perhaps they are different words for the same thing. Jiri, like most of my generation who come from Czechoslovakia, has quite a long history. He is an old man, older even than me. He was married when he lived in Czechoslovakia, with children I think. Then the war came and I do not know what happened. He never talks about such things, but when he came to England, he was alone. His first family…” Wally gave an expressively hopeless shrug. “So he was old, seventy perhaps, when he married again. To an English girl…well, I say ‘girl’, but she was no chicken either…Young enough, though, to give him a child. A little girl, Krystina.”

  “So ‘Kyra’ was…?”

  “Yes. The young always want to reinvent themselves, don’t they? New names, new clothes, new body-piercings…”

  H
e sounded contemptuous, so Jude said, in mitigation, “They’re only trying to find their own identities.”

  “Of course. And that is something that people like Jiri and me understand all too well. ‘Grenston’ – do you think that is my real name? I think ‘Grunstein’ might be closer to the mark. But who cares? What is a change of name if you feel happier with the result, if you fit in better because of the result? We all find our own ways of survival.” He looked thoughtful, but a glimpse at his watch brought him out of introspection. “Anyway, ‘Krystina’ is a good Czech name. ‘Kyra’…I don’t know where ‘Kyra’ comes from. The girl only changed her name to annoy her father.”

  “It was an adversarial relationship, was it then?”

  “It was not an easy relationship. But for reasons that came from outside, the pressure of events. Krystina’s mother died when the girl was only twelve. Breast cancer. Not an easy time for a child to lose a parent. So she was left with Jiri, who was…not the most natural person to look after a teenage girl.”

  “Was he cruel to her?”

  “Not deliberately. He did the best he could, did what was right according to his view of things. But his view of things was…I suppose you would say old–fashioned. Children, he felt, should always be on their best behaviour, always respectful to their parents. He didn’t encourage his daughter to make friends. I don’t think she ever invited anyone from school back to the house. And, of course, Jiri had no domestic skills, so after his wife died, Krystina was expected to do everything about the house. He did not want her to leave him. He could not manage without her.”

  “Are you saying that in the emotional sense?”

  “Jiri would deny it. He would say he only needed the girl to act as housekeeper for him. But Jiri was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve. To show his emotions costs him more than he is prepared to pay.”

  “So presumably…a man like that…he would not have found it easy when his daughter started to lead a life of her own…when she got a job…when she got a boyfriend…?”

  Wally Grenston shrugged. “I would not have thought so, but I don’t know for sure. Jiri Bartos is an acquaintance, not a close friend. He doesn’t unburden his feelings to me. Mind you, I don’t imagine he unburdens his feelings to anyone.”