by Simon Brett
‘Didn’t offer him anything stronger at that stage of the evening?’
‘No. She was worried about not having enough wine for later.’
Carole remembered Jude saying Burton had had a close relationship with alcohol. ‘Did he mind about that?’
Vix shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear him say anything.’
‘So, Di was in the staff room with him, what, talking about his books?’
‘I guess,’ said the girl without interest.
Carole changed direction. ‘Was Burton St Clair wearing an overcoat when he arrived at the library?’
‘No. He was parked directly outside. Maybe he’d got one in his car.’
‘I think Jude said he was wearing a black leather jacket.’
‘That’s right. But when he was chatting with Di, he took it off and hung it over the back of the chair.’
‘You don’t know how long it stayed there?’
‘I don’t think he picked it up again before he went through to the library for Di to introduce him, you know, at the beginning of his talk.’
‘So there might have been a moment when the jacket was left unattended in the staff room?’
Another shrug. ‘Might have been. Quite likely, I suppose.’
‘One other thing. While he was in the library on Tuesday, did Burton St Clair make a pass at you?’
‘“Make a pass”? What you mean, like, “come on to me”?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, he bloody didn’t!’ The girl looked disgusted to the depths of her dumpy soul. ‘He’s old.’
‘Were you aware that he had “come on” to Di Thompson?’
‘To Di?’ Her nose wrinkled with further distaste. ‘Oh my God, that must’ve made her day.’
‘I don’t think it did.’
‘Well, I think it’s a long time since she’s seen any action of that kind. I can’t imagine her ever doing it, actually.’ The pierced nose was wrinkled with disgust. ‘Her and Burton St Clair – yuk!’
‘Well, apparently he did grope her.’
‘That’s horrible.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they’re both so old!’
To Carole Seddon, who was probably exactly the same age as Di Thompson, this was less than amusing. ‘There was one other thing I wanted to ask you, Vix. About the timing of—’
She was interrupted by a pinging from the girl’s phone. Without a word of apology, it was picked up. A text was read, and a short reply sent off.
‘Sorry, gotta go. My mate Jools is outside in her car. We’re going on to meet some people in another pub.’
And, pausing only to down the remains of her cider, Vix Winter rushed out of the Crown & Anchor.
On her way to the door, Carole did the public-spirited thing of taking the two empty glasses up to the bar. Zosia was slumped forward against it, looking even more dejected.
‘Are you all right?’ Carole asked, knowing that Jude would have put the question less brusquely.
She was right. The Polish girl looked up. Tears started to sparkle on the heavy mascara of her eyelashes, and she went wordlessly out through the door that led to the kitchen.
‘Women’s moods, eh?’ It was the landlord, Ted Crisp, barrelling his way along the bar towards Carole. ‘Though presumably saying that would be sexist these days, wouldn’t it?’
‘Probably. Though I didn’t think political correctness had ever really been your thing, Ted.’
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t so important when I was doing the stand-up circuit. Nowadays, almost any joke you make is going to offend some minority. No way round it, though, so far as I can see. Jokes have to be at someone’s expense, for heaven’s sake. Jokes have to have butts, otherwise they’re not jokes.’
‘Maybe.’ Carole found Ted’s company obscurely comforting. The fact that they had once had a brief affair was still a source of surprise to both of them. Though the differences in their personalities meant that a relationship of such closeness could never have lasted, it had remained a bond between them.
She moved on. ‘Do you know what’s wrong with Zosia?’
He shrugged awkwardly. ‘Moods?’
At least he hadn’t said ‘time of the month’, thought Carole, though she knew exactly what he meant. She was constantly amazed by how embarrassed men got about the subject of periods. And how they assumed that they must be the cause of all of women’s emotional upsets.
‘Let me fill your glass up.’
‘No, Ted, I should really be—’
‘On the house.’
She didn’t argue.
He poured out the New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and pulled himself half a pint of Sussex Gold. This was unusual. Though Ted Crisp liked to build up the image of himself as a hard drinker, it was increasingly rare for him to sample his own wares. He had seen too many pub landlords ruin themselves and their businesses by sliding down the easy slope to alcoholism.
Anyway, trade was slack. Even though it was a Saturday, pubs across the country were still suffering from the post-Christmas slump. He raised his glass to his guest.
After they had toasted each other, Carole suddenly remembered that Jude had entrusted her with a murder investigation, and one in which Ted might be able to provide more information. ‘People still talking about that business with Burton St Clair in the library?’
‘Of course they are. It only happened on Tuesday and, in case you’ve forgotten, we do live in Fethering, a village where a dog fouling the dunes can fuel six months’ worth of gossip. No way they’re going to stop talking about a murder in four days, is there?’
‘No. When Jude and I were last in here, you talked about some American woman pontificating in here with some theories about different kinds of murders.’
‘Yes, I remember her. At the time, I thought what she was saying was a load of cobblers, and I haven’t changed my mind on that.’
‘You don’t know if her name was Nessa Perks, do you?’
Ted shook his head. ‘No idea what she was called.’
‘And you don’t know if she had any connection with the University of Clincham, do you?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes, I do remember one of the kids she was with mentioning the place.’
‘Thank you.’ At least Carole now knew who was the next person she should try to contact.
As, feeling rather mellow, Carole walked back from the pub to High Tor, for the first time she wondered whether Jude might actually have had something to do with Burton St Clair’s death. The thought was quickly suppressed, but she knew it was one which, once planted, would continue to linger just below the level of her consciousness.
SIXTEEN
Jude couldn’t get away from the feeling that she was under house arrest. Detective Inspector Rollins had only warned her off continuing her private investigation, but it was as if a hold had been put on all other areas of her life. Going shopping, going out for a walk: nothing felt right.
She even postponed a couple of healing sessions she had booked over the weekend. This was unusual. The needs of her clients always took priority over her own concerns. But she knew that, in her current emotional state, she would not have the focus required to channel her healing powers.
Nor did her vast repertoire of therapeutic resources help. Though she knew a multitude of ways to bring peace to the troubled souls of others, nothing seemed to mitigate her own uneasiness. The biblical proverb, ‘Physician, heal thyself’, was a difficult instruction to follow. Physicians have never been particularly good at applying their expertise to themselves.
It was very out of character for Jude to be in such a twitchy state. But, as the sequence of coincidences – culminating in the discovery of the huile de noix bottle – continued, she felt herself getting deeper and deeper into some Kafkaesque nightmare which could only end in her arrest.
Of course, the one link in Rollins’s chain of condemnation which Jude knew to be untrue was her supposed affair with Burton St Clair
. It didn’t really matter whether Megan had affirmed its existence from sheer vindictiveness, or because a jealous suspicion in her paranoid mind had over the years hardened into fact. The accusation had been made, and the Detective Inspector believed it.
For a moment Jude contemplated ringing Megan, trying to reason with her, persuading her to rescind the statement she had given to the police. But she quickly rejected the idea. For a start, Megan was probably convinced that the lie she had told was the truth. And, looking at the situation from the police perspective, if Jude were guilty of the murder, then it would be entirely logical for her to put pressure on their star witness to change her story. Doing that wouldn’t help her cause one iota. No, every avenue Jude considered following appeared to be blocked.
And she couldn’t really blame the police for the direction in which their suspicions were moving. There was a logic there. Was it possible that she was the victim of some elaborate plan to frame her? Why? And who would do such a thing? It wasn’t an idea to make her tangled thoughts any clearer.
For the first time, she wondered whether she ought to contact a solicitor. At one level, it was insane she was even contemplating such a step. On the other hand though, even if Rollins hadn’t actually voiced the threat, she would clearly love to see Jude in court. If professional help was going to be required, perhaps she should start doing something about it?
The telephone rang. Hearing Oliver Parsons’ voice at the other end of the line did nothing to diminish Jude’s confusion.
‘Just wondering how your interview with the police went yesterday?’
God, was it only yesterday? Jude had been through so much emotional turmoil since Oliver had dropped her home it seemed like an age ago.
‘I’m afraid I can’t really talk about it.’
‘Oh? That doesn’t sound like you, Jude.’
‘No, it isn’t like me. The fact is, Oliver, the police have told me that I mustn’t investigate any further.’
‘Have they? Worried that the amateur sleuth might solve the murder before they do?’
‘You’ve been reading too many of your Golden Age crime novels. No, they have just told me to back off.’
‘They reckon you’re interfering with their enquiries?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Does this mean they’re near to a solution of the crime? Do they have a prime suspect?’
‘They have. And I’m afraid it’s me.’
‘What?’ He sounded genuinely gobsmacked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m afraid I am.’
‘My God. And are they still thinking that Burton St Clair was killed by some walnut extract in the wine bottle?’
‘Yes. Well, I haven’t heard to the contrary.’
‘I was going to suggest meeting up for a … I don’t know … a drink or a—’
‘No. Sorry, Oliver. But until I get the police off my back, I don’t feel like socializing.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s fine. I’ll give you a call in a few days.’
She wondered whether he would. Had she choked him off too prematurely? She felt a little wistful. There had definitely been a spark between them; something might have developed.
But the potential end of an embryonic relationship was the least of Jude’s worries.
Any normal neighbour – obviously in the more relaxed North of England, but even in the frostily genteel South – would have knocked on the door of Woodside Cottage when walking past. But not Carole Seddon. Even after so many years of friendship, from the Crown & Anchor she went back to High Tor, then rang Jude from there and asked if she could call round.
Her neighbour was still jumpy. Jude’s paranoia was not decreasing. She was worried that her phone was tapped and that she was permanently under surveillance. Maybe Detective Inspector Rollins and her team were also now checking Carole’s movements and would extend to her the ban on investigating Burton St Clair’s death.
Jude expressed this anxiety, but her neighbour just said briskly, ‘If that is the case, then I should bring you up to date with what I’ve found out as quickly as possible.’ And she delivered a characteristically efficient report on her interviews with the two librarians and Ted Crisp.
The detail that Jude clung on to was that the remains of the wine bottle had been taken off for forensic analysis. ‘If they don’t find any evidence of walnut contamination – or if they find it didn’t come from huile de noix – then that’ll finally prove I couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder.’
Carole did not look convinced. ‘You’re still apparently the last person to have seen Burton St Clair alive. I’m not sure that the police will drop you off their list of suspects straight away.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jude ironically.
‘Anyway,’ Carole continued, determined as ever, ‘until I actually am warned off by the police, I intend to go on with this investigation.’
‘So, what will be your next step?’
‘I’ll try to make contact with this Nessa Perks woman. I’m not sure whether she’ll have anything useful to contribute, but at least she’s another witness to the events of Tuesday night.’
‘Do you have a number for her?’
‘No, I’ll have to go through the University of Clincham. Though whether there’ll be anyone around there at the weekend, I don’t know.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Don’t worry, Jude. I’ll sort this out. There’s no way I’m going to let you get a life sentence for a crime you didn’t commit.’
To Jude this sounded a little over-dramatic. But it did address the basic source of her anxiety. And to know that she had Carole fighting her corner was very comforting.
It was about half-past five when the telephone next rang in Woodside Cottage. ‘Hi, Jude, it’s Zosia.’
‘How lovely to hear you.’ But Jude recognized the tension in her voice. She remembered from her last visit to the Crown & Anchor how down the girl had been looking. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ Zosia replied instinctively, but her tone told another story.
‘Are you sure?’
‘No, I am not sure.’ After dedicated study and classes, she now spoke perfectly grammatical English. But her accent remained, and grew thicker when she was in an emotional state.
‘Is it something you can talk about?’
‘Yes. It is something normally I would have talked to Tadeusz about, but obviously I cannot do that.’ The pain caused by her brother’s death did not go away.
‘If talking to me would help …’
‘Please. I like to. But not on telephone. I need to see you to talk.’
‘That’s fine. Would you like me to come to the pub?’
‘No. Saturday night it is already filling up. We are booked out for dinner. It will be a busy evening.’
‘Well, tell me when you’d like me to come.’
‘Please, it is easier if I come to you. Tomorrow morning? I do not have to be on duty till twelve.’
‘Fine. You remember where Woodside Cottage is, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Say ten thirty?’
When she put the phone down, Jude felt a warm glow. It would be good to concentrate on someone else’s problems for a while.
And if she was under police surveillance, they couldn’t object to her being visited by Zosia. The girl had nothing to do with Burton St Clair’s murder.
SEVENTEEN
Carole reckoned she’d done everything she could to get in touch with Nessa Perks. Without any personal contact, she could only make an approach through the University of Clincham website. She went to the Creative Writing degree course section and discovered that her quarry was listed as ‘Professor Vanessa Perks’. This confirmed a trend Carole had spotted. Every professor interviewed on Radio 4’s Today programme nowadays seemed to be female and American.
No direct email addresses for any of the teaching staff were listed, so Carole sent a message to the English and
Creative Writing Department, marked ‘FAO Professor Vanessa Perks’. Whether it would reach its destination, and how long it would take to reach that destination, she had no means of knowing.
It was frustrating not to be able to move her investigation on more proactively, but she reconciled herself to the fact that there would probably be no reaction from the University of Clincham at a weekend. So, the highlight of Carole’s Sunday would have to be a Skype conversation with her granddaughter Lily in Fulham. (Initially wary of all new technology, but manically enthusiastic once she had embraced it, Carole had now become a devotee of Skype.) And though she wished she saw more of Lily and her younger sister Chloe in the flesh, she did relish engaging on the screen with her older granddaughter’s increasing articulacy.
Zosia arrived at exactly ten thirty. When she took off her fur-lined parka, she revealed her work uniform of white shirt and black trousers. Her make-up and pigtails were perfect and Jude was struck by how pretty she was. She can’t have lacked for interest from the young men of Fethering but, so far as Jude knew, she hadn’t had a boyfriend since she’d been working at the Crown & Anchor. Maybe the hours of a bar manager weren’t conducive to an active social life, but Jude reckoned the girl’s single state was more a result of the long mourning process she was going through for her murdered brother.
Once they were both supplied with coffee, Jude asked directly, ‘What’s the problem?’
‘It is my uncle Pawel. My mother’s brother.’
Jude didn’t know that Zosia had an uncle, but made no comment. She could recognize when someone needed to talk, and let the girl run on.
‘He has come to England only six months ago. He had much unhappiness in Poland. He lost his job. My mother thought he might have more chance of getting another job here in England, but it is not easy. Uncle Pawel is maybe sixty-five years old; it is as hard for him to get a job in England as it was in Poland.’
‘What’s his profession?’
‘I don’t think you would call it a profession; it is a job. In Poland he was a builder. Not a builder who runs projects, just a building labourer. So now he is old, although he would never admit it, he does not have the strength for the heavy work any more. That is why he lost his job in Poland. And it is the same here. Even if he were English, he would not get a labouring job here.’