'And, of course, had circumstances been different, I suppose we might have had another child. Been a proper little family. Still, it's too late to think about that now.' She allowed herself a small sigh of frustration.
'I hope your second marriage has been happier.'
Jude's words were greeted by a grunt of cynicism.
'No, that one didn't last either. Less than a year. I was stupid to think it would work. I'm afraid I'm not marriage material at the moment. I'm still just an emotional minefield.'
There was a silence. Then Jude removed her hands from Miranda's neck and shoulders. 'Does that feel easier? Just move your head from side to side. See if it's less tight.'
The client did as she was told. 'Yes, it is much better.'
'That's only alleviated the symptoms. Now I'll see if I can heal what's causing it.'
'Good luck,' said Miranda Browning, with a hint of bitterness. 'Sadly I don't think healing can change history.'
'No, I agree. But it maybe can change the way you react to history.'
'Diminish how much I blame myself?'
'Maybe a bit. If you turn over and lie on your front, Miranda.'
An expression of intense concentration came into Jude's brown eyes as she ran her hands along the contours of the woman's body. Once again there was no contact made, but the effort was more intense and exhausting than it had been for the actual massage.
'Did it actually help last time I did this?' Jude asked.
'Yes, it did for a few days. In fact I have felt generally better since then. That is . . . until recent events.'
'Yes, it must be ghastly having it all brought back to you.'
'Still, maybe I will be able to find a workable modus vivendi, now there's no longer any uncertainty.' But she didn't sound over-optimistic about the prospect.
'Presumably . . .' Jude chose her words with sensitivity '. . . now the police actually have a body, there's a stronger chance they may be able to track down the perpetrator, you know, the person who actually abducted Robin?'
'Maybe. They certainly seem in no hurry to release the body. So presumably every kind of forensic test is being . . .' The images this prompted were too graphic for her to finish the sentence.
'Were there suspects at the time?'
'The usual ones. Everyone vaguely local who featured on the Sex Offenders Register. They couldn't pin it on anyone, though. Lack of evidence.'
'Did you have any suspicions of anyone?'
Miranda Browning shook her head. 'It never occurred to me for a moment that it might be anyone I had met.'
'No.' Jude didn't raise the fact that in a lot of such cases the perpetrator was someone known to the family.
'Do you think it'll be a comfort to you when the culprit is found?'
'I really don't know. Whoever he is, I have hated him very deeply at times. At times I know I have wanted him dead. How I'll react now, I've no idea. I didn't know how I'd react to Robin's body being found. And through all the pain I think there may eventually be a positive side to that. Maybe it'll be the same when they arrest his murderer. As I say, at the moment I just don't know.'
The healing session, as ever, left Jude wrung out like a damp rag. Miranda Browning was very grateful, saying that it had left her feeling more relaxed. But both women knew that the residue of pain inside her was something that could never be fully healed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
'Which tennis player was in every final of the Men's US Open Championship from 1982 to 1989?'
Carole and Jude looked at each other, both with wrinkled brows. 'Was it Jimmy Connors?' Carole suggested without much conviction. 'Or would he have been earlier than that?'
'What's the name of that boring one?' asked Jude.
'Pete Sampras?'
'No, the other boring one. Czech, never won Wimbledon.'
'Ivan something . . .'
'Lendl!'
'Yes, that's right. Ivan Lendl!'
'Shall I write it down, Carole?' asked Jude.
'Yes, I'm sure it's right.'
Whether the gruesome discovery of Robin Cutter's remains had anything to do with it or not, there was a very good turn-out for the SBHA quiz night in the function room of the Crown and Anchor in Fethering. Reginald Flowers was, needless to say, the quizmaster, smart in a blazer and tie, which looked vaguely naval (but probably wasn't). Needless to say, he had his own neat little portable amplifier and a microphone to talk into.
Beside him at his table sat Dora Pinchbeck, with a pile of forms to fill in and tick off. Her crushed expression suggested that she hadn't been allowed to forget her lapse over the booking of St Mary's Church Hall.
Many of the Smalting Beach regulars were there, but there were also quite a lot of faces Carole didn't recognize. Twenty-two people including Reginald, dividing up into four table teams of four and one of five. Carole and Jude were sitting with a married couple; enthusiastic hutters they hadn't met before. The husband plumed himself on being Captain of the Smalting Golf Club, and it was a mercy when the start of the quiz stopped him talking about the fact. His wife spoke little, only nodding in admiration at his every pronouncement.
Deborah Wrigley was there, somewhat to Carole's surprise. She would have thought a quiz night was too common an entertainment for the self-styled grande dame of the Shorelands Estate. But maybe curiosity about the Robin Cutter case had persuaded Deborah to slum a little. She had her son Gavin and his unfortunate wife Nell with her, so at least she was not without people to patronize. Carole reckoned the young couple were probably back on the South Coast to rescue Tristram and Hermione from their grandmother's rigid tutelage. 'Quality time' with Deborah Wrigley somehow seemed unlikely also to be fun time.
Carole hadn't expected to see Katie Brunswick in the function room either. Again she wouldn't have thought quizzes were the obsessive rewriter's kind of thing either. But there she was, sitting rather incongruously at a table with Kelvin Southwest, Curt Holderness and an unfamiliar third man who made up the team.
'I didn't expect to see you here,' Carole whispered to the girl as she passed.
'Very important to get local colour,' Katie whispered back. 'I was told that at a writing course I went to once in the Dordogne.'
Earlier in the evening Carole had been rather surprised when she and Jude had met Kelvin Southwest in the Crown and Anchor's main bar. Gone was all his smarm, all his creepy compliments about 'lovely ladies'. He had almost cut the pair of them dead, immediately turning away to seek out the company of Curt Holderness and some other men Carole hadn't recognized. At the time she and Jude had exchanged looks of the 'What's got into him?' variety.
The members of the Smalting Beach Hut Association conspicuous by their absence at the quiz night were Lionel and Joyce Oliver. Given the news they had recently received, there was no surprise about that, but Carole and Jude couldn't help feeling a slight disappointment. Persuading herself that it was not a breach of client confidentiality, Jude had passed on to her neighbour what she had heard from Miranda Browning, and they were both aware that, if they were to advance in their investigation, they would probably have to talk to the Olivers at some point. It was not, however, destined to be that evening.
Another absentee was Philly Rose. But then that was hardly a surprise. Since she'd passed Quiet Harbour over to Carole, she was no longer really a member of the hutters' community.
'Have you all put down your answers to the question?' asked Reginald Flowers.
'Well, we've put down an answer,' said Kelvin Southwest, who, after his earlier frostiness, now seemed determined to be the life and soul of the party. 'Whether or not it's the right answer is another matter.' And he and Curt Holderness guffawed. Even if she hadn't known what she did about the two men, Carole might still have felt there was something slightly sinister in their complicity.