by Brett, Simon
Around his neck, suspending him from the end crossbar of the four-poster, was one of the silken ropes that had tied back the curtains.
Nigel Ackford had been spared his hangover.
8
CAROLE COULDN’T BELIEVE how relieved she was to see Jude on her doorstep the following afternoon. She hadn’t slept well. The news from Stephen had upset her, and the fact that it upset her upset her more. She should have been ecstatic. The announcement of a son having found the woman with whom he wishes to spend the rest of his life is something for which every mother should be waiting. There was potential there for a new generation and all kinds of old-fashioned things, like hope. Joy should be unconfined.
And yet joy was not Carole’s predominant emotion. It was confusion. Closely followed by guilt. This defining moment in family life had left her examining the shortcomings of that family life, had highlighted the failure of her marriage and reminded her of her lack of maternal instinct. She needed to talk to Jude about it. Jude was sympathetic. Jude was a constructive listener.
But that particular afternoon Jude was not in a listening mood. Her priority was the news that she had to impart. And when she had imparted it, Carole realised that her neighbour was shaky, perhaps even in shock. Jude’s customary serenity was so pervasive that Carole was surprised to see her in this state. She quickly supplied them both with glasses of white wine and sat Jude in an armchair in the sitting room. To avoid delay, she even resisted her instinct to put out a little table beside the chair for her friend’s wineglass.
“You’ve presumably talked to the police?”
“Yes, they sent me home. There weren’t any cabs available, I had to get two buses. That’s why it’s taken me so long.”
“You should have called me from your mobile. I’d have picked you up.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think.” Unwontedly twitchy, Jude looked out of the window into Fethering High Street. “The police said they’d be round later to talk more. Suzy wanted the minimum of fuss at the hotel.”
“One can understand that she would.” Carole couldn’t quite keep disapproval out of her voice when Suzy Longthorne’s name came up. They’d never met, but the former model’s public image predisposed Carole against her. Being splashed over papers and magazines, having high-profile lovers, building a career simply from being pretty . . . all of it offended Carole Seddon’s Calvinist work ethic. Deep down there was also the natural, inescapable resentment of a plain woman toward a beautiful one.
Feeling guilty for her disapproval—everything was making her feel guilty that morning—she compensated with solicitude. “You must be feeling terrible—awful for you to have actually found the body.”
Jude nodded. “It was nasty. Particularly as I’d talked to the boy only a few hours earlier.”
“And he hadn’t sounded suicidal then?”
“Far from it.”
Carole grimaced wryly. “Who can tell what goes on inside another person’s mind?”
Jude felt confident that she quite often could tell, but all she said was, “True.”
“Was there a suicide note?”
“Apparently. Well, not necessarily a suicide note, but some document which made the police pretty certain it was suicide. I didn’t see it. As soon as I found the body, I rushed straight down to tell Suzy. She went up to the room to check that it was locked, and then she called the police. Apparently they did find a letter in the bedroom, under the pillow, I think.”
“And did they immediately question all the guests?”
“The guests had all gone by then. Had breakfast, checked out by ten-thirty.”
“Who were they again? You did tell me.”
“The Pillars of Sussex.”
Carole made a face. “Oh yes, I have heard of them. Some kind of back-scratching organisation for local businessmen, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“And this poor young . . .you know, the one who died . . . was he a member?”
“A guest. But he seemed quite excited at the prospect of becoming a member.”
“Hm. Lucky for your friend Suzy”—Carole was incapable of saying the name without the preface of your friend—“that all the guests had gone before the news broke.”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, it’s the kind of thing you’d want to keep as quiet as possible. You’re hardly going to advertise a suicide in the hotel brochure, are you?”
“No.” Jude was preoccupied, still uncharacteristically subdued. Her mind was full.
“Though there’s no way it won’t get out soon enough,” Carole went on. “People gossip. The hotel staff are bound to talk.”
“I don’t know that they will. Suzy commands a lot of respect. So if she asks them not to tell . . .”
“I doubt if even Suzy Longthorne’s fabled charms could stop this getting out.” The resentment was back in Carole’s voice.
“No. Probably not.”
“Did the police speak to the staff?”
“Yes. Quick word with each of us individually. And then they’ll follow up.”
“Have they closed the hotel down?”
“I’m not sure what’s happening. There aren’t any bookings the next couple of nights. Some at the weekend. A wedding reception and quite a lot of people staying over. By then I would imagine they’d have completed any investigations they’re going to make.”
“Hm. Well, that’s very sad. Horrible shock for you . . . and a terrible waste of a young life.” Carole reckoned she had shown an adequate amount of sympathy, and could move the conversation on. “I actually had some rather surprising news. From Stephen, my—”
But she got no further. Jude was on her feet, looking out of the window. A car was parking outside Woodside Cottage.
“It’s the police. I’d better go and let them in.”
Carole’s face set in an expression of frustration.
There was an apologetic fastidiousness about Detective Inspector Goodchild, as if he would rather have been doing any job other than his own, and actually regretted the necessity of dealing with criminal matters. He was tall, and his pale grey pin-striped suit reinforced his image of pained decency. His sidekick, Detective Sergeant Fallon, was either awestruck by the presence of his senior or silent by nature. Beyond a “Hello again” on arrival, he didn’t speak during the interview.
“Once more, I’m very sorry to have to take you through all this, Miss . . . er—”
“Jude, Inspector. Everyone calls me Jude.”
“Right. Well, Jude, I’m aware you’ve had an unpleasant experience, so I will try not to dwell on it, but there are of course certain details . . .”
“I understand.”
“In any case of an unnatural death . . . particularly a suicide, we—”
“Are you sure it is a suicide?”
The inspector smiled indulgently. “Jude, I know you expressed doubts back at the hotel, and I can assure you that we will be investigating every angle. The verdict of the cause of death will have to wait for the inquest . . .”
“When’s that likely to be?”
“Within the week. The preliminary inquest, anyway.”
Jude was alerted by the adjective. “Oh?”
Patiently, Inspector Goodchild explained. “It’s entirely possible that we won’t have all our evidence together by then. The coroner may well adjourn the inquest to give us time.”
“And that’s when you’ll get your suicide verdict?”
He smiled the smile of someone accustomed to recalcitrant and emotional witnesses. “Jude, I’m sorry. I simply used the word ‘suicide’ for convenience. It looks like a suicide, but I suppose, until the coroner’s verdict, I should really be saying ‘apparent suicide.’ Would you be happy if I referred to the unfortunate incident as ‘the death’?”
“I don’t mind what you call it, so long as you haven’t made up your minds about what happened.”
“Of course not. That would be very unprofessiona
l for people in our job.” This made her feel even more patronised. “Now I think we’ve got the details of how you discovered Mr. Ackford’s body this morning . . . though, if any other recollections come to you, we would be most grateful to hear them.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his smart suit for a card. “While I think of it, this has got my numbers on it. The mobile, the office . . . I’m based in Worthing, so if there’s anything you wish to communicate, don’t hesitate . . .”
She took the card, while the inspector went on, “I’d like to talk, Jude, if I may, about the conversation you had with the deceased in the early hours of this morning.”
“Yes.”
“You say Mr. Ackford was very drunk.”
“Extremely. They’d all drunk a lot right through the evening.”
“Ah yes.” Detective Inspector Goodchild smiled fondly. “Always enjoy their drink, the Pillars of Sussex.”
Something in his manner alerted Jude. He seemed to know all about the association. Was it even possible that he was a member? Had someone from the group already been in touch? Had someone pointed out how awkward it might be for the Pillars of Sussex to be contaminated by the merest whiff of scandal? They had a lot of local influence, which might easily reach up to the highest echelons of the West Sussex Constabulary.
But she didn’t vocalise her suspicion. “Nigel Ackford was singing. He wasn’t a maudlin drunk, not self-pitying and self-hating. He was cheerful.”
“So you’re saying that’s a reason why he was unlikely to have killed himself?”
“Possibly, yes. He seemed far from suicidal when he talked to me. His mood must have changed pretty violently in a few hours.”
“People’s moods do, Jude. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the symptoms of depression . . . ?”
The condescending tone made her want to snap back, but she curbed the instinct. “I am familiar with the symptoms of depression. I have done some work as a healer and alternative therapist.”
“Ah.” It could have been Carole responding. She would have put exactly the same mixture of disbelief and contempt into the monosyllable. “We did find antidepressants in the dead man’s sponge-bag, Jude.”
She hadn’t expected that, but didn’t allow the information to put her offtrack. “Nonetheless, I still don’t think Nigel Ackford was suicidal the last time I saw him. He was full of hope. He reckoned he was a shoo-in to join the Pillars of Sussex, and he seemed very excited about that.”
“ ‘Excited’ is a good word, Jude, in the circumstances. Manic depressives are subject to violent mood swings. Not to mention a loose grasp on reality. And if Nigel Ackford seriously thought someone of his age had any chance of becoming a Pillar . . .” Goodchild let out a dismissive grunt.
“I’m no psychologist . . .” he admitted generously, though still implying that he put such experts in the same category as alternative therapists. “No, I’m not, but from everything I’ve heard about Nigel Ackford . . . just in the very brief time that I’ve even known of his existence . . . he seemed to display all the symptoms of bipolar disorder.”
“Well . . .”
“Up when you saw him at two-thirty this morning . . .” the inspector persisted, “and down when he woke up with a crippling hangover some few hours later.”
“But you don’t know—”
“Jude, Mr. Ackford had a history of mental illness. He broke down at university. Last year he had three months off from his employers, Renton & Chew. He also—”
“Inspector, he was going to get married. He was about to propose to his girlfriend.”
This did stop him in his tracks. “Might that girlfriend’s name be Wendy?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded, and exchanged a look with the impassive Detective Sergeant Fallon. “We’ve just come from talking to Miss Wendy Fullerton.”
“And she’s Nigel Ackford’s girlfriend?”
Jude’s enthusiasm was quickly dashed. “She was Nigel Ackford’s girlfriend.”
“Well, I know. Obviously he’s dead and—”
“She was Nigel Ackford’s girlfriend until four months ago. Then she broke off the relationship.”
“Oh. But if he’d asked her to marry him, she might have felt—”
“If he’d asked her to marry him, I got the impression Mr. Ackford would have received a very dusty answer. Wasn’t that the impression you got, Fallon?”
The Detective Sergeant nodded.
“So,” the Inspector continued, “while the thought of proposing to the young lady might have buoyed Mr. Ackford up when he was drunk, he would still have woken up to the reality that she had in fact—not to put too fine a point on it—dumped him . . . which,” he concluded with satisfaction, “is exactly the sort of thing that might make any man contemplate topping himself.”
“But, I still think—”
“Jude!” Inspector Goodchild’s veneer of urbane fastidiousness was wearing thin. “We found a letter.”
“Yes, I heard about that. What did the letter say?”
“I am not at liberty to reveal the contents.”
“Was it handwritten?”
“There is a tradition,” Inspector Goodchild said coldly, “that in situations like this, the police ask the questions, and we—”
Jude interrupted as a sudden, welcome recollection came to her. “But of course there was another letter! The note that was found in one of the bedrooms.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There was a note, a threatening note.” Jude’s words tumbled over each other in her excitement. “Printed on Hopwicke House headed paper. Suzy showed it to me. Kerry had found it in one of the bedrooms. It read: ‘Enjoy this day. You won’t see another one . . .’ Something like that.”
The inspector looked sceptical. “Rather strange, wouldn’t you say, that Miss Longthorne didn’t mention this note to me?”
“She must have forgotten. In the shock of everything that was happening.”
“We did ask Miss Longthorne more than once whether anything unusual had happened yesterday, either before her guest arrived . . . or after.”
“It must have slipped her—”
“We put the same question to the young lady, Kerry.”
“And she didn’t remember finding the note in the bedroom?”
“She didn’t mention it, no.”
“But there was a note. I swear there was.”
“Right, right.” Inspector Goodchild nodded slowly. “I’m not disbelieving you, Jude. I should think you’re probably right. Miss Longthorne forgot about the note in the excitement of the moment.”
“And I’m sure, if you asked her specifically about the note that she showed me—”
“Just what I was about to do.” He produced a mobile phone from his pocket and, as he keyed in a number, said, “Wonderfully neat little gadgets, these, aren’t they? Makes you wonder how we ever managed without them. They’ve made such a difference to . . .” He raised a hand, indicating that he had gotten through. “Miss Longthorne? It’s Detective Inspector Goodchild. Sorry to be back to you so soon, but there is a detail I need to check. Thank you. Very kind.”
He looked around the clutter of Woodside Cottage as he listened to Suzy, but Jude could not hear what her friend was saying. Then Goodchild spoke again. “I’ve just been talking to your friend Jude, and she was telling me about this note that was found in one of the bedrooms yesterday. Found by the girl, Kerry, apparently . . . ? The contents were of a threatening nature, I gather. Ah, thank you. Thank you very much. I’m afraid I probably will have to be in touch again, but only on minor details. It shouldn’t take long. Thank you. And I hope you manage to get a good night’s sleep tonight. Good-bye.”
He ended the call and smiled. She didn’t need him to spell it out, but he did.
“I’m sorry, Jude. I’m afraid your friend Suzy Longthorne doesn’t have any recollection of ever seeing the note you described.”
9
; “I JUST DO not believe that that boy committed suicide,” said Jude, as they approached the Crown & Anchor.
“If he had a history of depression . . .” Carole argued.
“He may well have had a history of depression, but I saw him that night. He wasn’t depressed then. He was just drunk.”
“Drink is a notorious depressant,” said Carole primly.
“But he wasn’t drunk and depressed. He was drunk and incapable. He couldn’t have organised a suicide, he could hardly stand.”
“Then maybe it happened by accident.”
“You do not remove a curtain rope, tie it to a crossbeam and put it round your neck by accident.” Jude pushed open the clattering doors of the pub.
Carole followed her in, surprised to see so much anger. She was the uptight one; Jude always seemed to emanate an almost unnatural laid-back calm. But the interview with Detective Inspector Goodchild had clearly gotten to her.
“Well, there’s a sight to brighten up a dull evening. Two large Chardonnays if ever I saw them.”
Ted Crisp stood in his usual pose behind the bar. His beard and hair showed their customary ignorance of grooming. The sweatshirt he wore was so faded that its original colour could have been black, blue or green; the advertising logo it had once showed off was now an incomprehensible blur. The idea that she had had an affair with him—however brief—still seemed incongruous to Carole. But not distasteful. And she was glad that their relationship had now settled down to a kind of joshing affection.
He was pouring the drinks before they ordered them. There was some comfort in that, thought Carole. Though she still didn’t think of herself as a “pub person,” it was good to have a haven where one was known and recognised.
“How’re you, Ted?” she asked.
“Mustn’t grumble. Doesn’t stop me, though. Guess what this is an impression of.” Suddenly he turned a full 360 degrees behind the bar.
“No idea.”
“A counter-revolutionary.”
They gave the joke the groan it deserved. In a previous incarnation, Ted Crisp had been a stand-up comedian. If the one he’d just cracked was representative of his jokes, there was no wonder that he’d sought alternative employment.