The fact that she knew Laurence Hawker to be in the company – almost certainly the bed – of another woman could not have worried her less. For the first six months in Prague, even the suspicion of such a possibility would have reduced her to an anguish of doubt and pain. Now . . . the image of the other woman did not even enter her mind. Partly, she knew, this was because she had matured. And partly . . . it was because of Laurence’s circumstances.
The shadow of his infidelity, which had hung over their previous cohabitation, had been replaced by the shadow of his illness. Jude tried not to think about it too much, and for much of the time could keep her mind fruitfully full of other thoughts, but every now and then the reality gatecrashed. Neither of them pretended that they were the great loves of each other’s lives, but their rediscovered proximity was bound to aggravate the inevitable pain that lay ahead.
Occasionally, Jude’s mind strayed to the possibilities of cure. She knew many heart-warming stories of success with cancers, using both conventional and alternative therapies. But every time she had such thoughts, she hit a brick wall; she couldn’t take the idea further. It was Jude’s deeply held belief that in all matters medical the wishes of the patient remained paramount. Even to raise the subject of treatment with Laurence would be a betrayal of the agreement they had made. Jude sometimes found it hard to live with that agreement, but she knew she must. If Laurence were to change his mind, the situation would be different. But she knew he was never going to.
Still, as she soaked in a bath fragrant with herbs and oils on the Sunday morning, Jude was able to displace morbid thoughts of one death with more cheerful thoughts of another. Since she’d never properly known Sheila Cartwright, the murder prompted an intellectual rather than an emotional reaction. Jude didn’t have nearly as much knowledge of the principals in the case as Carole did, but she could still speculate. And ring Carole later, see if she fancied lunch at the Crown and Anchor, for a bit more speculation.
The phone rang. Fortunately, for once she’d remembered to bring the handset with her, so she could answer it without getting out of her cocoon of bath water.
It was Sandy Fairbarns. ‘I’m ringing because obviously I heard about the murder up at Bracketts.’
‘Hard to escape it. Radio, television . . . I haven’t seen any of the papers yet today, but I’m sure it’ll be all over them too.’
‘It is. And, listen, the police have been to Austen.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Asking some of the other inmates about Mervyn Hunter.’
‘Ah.’
‘Until Friday evening, the search for him was a kind of “Circulate his details round the country, but he’ll turn up in his own good time.” Now it’s a manhunt.’
‘You mean he’s a suspect?’
‘Apparently, he had a good few set-tos with Sheila Cartwright. Just the kind of bossy, demanding woman who’d get to him.’
‘Yes, but do you think . . .? It would have taken planning . . . for Mervyn to make his way up to Bracketts, find the gun and—’
‘No, I don’t for a moment think he’s anything to do with it. But the poor sap’s tarred with that brush . . . you know, he killed a woman once, so . . .’
‘Of course he’s going to go on killing women.’
‘That’s the thinking, yes.’
‘But I’m sure when he’s found, it’ll be proved he had nothing to do with this murder.’
‘Hope so. I’m just worried about that “when he’s found”. I’m afraid if the hunt got really intense and close, Mervyn might panic and . . . do some harm . . .’
‘To himself or to someone else?’
‘Either. I’m actually more worried about him doing harm to himself.’
‘Hm. So what do you want to do, Sandy?’
‘I want us to try and find him before the police do.’
Jude let out a low whistle. ‘What are the chances of that? Do you have any leads?’
‘Only one. There was a guy up at Bracketts Mervyn used to talk about. Sounded almost like he’d got a friend up there. Certainly closer to a friend than anyone he met round Austen.’
Jude understood instinctively. ‘So you want me to go and talk to this “friend”? See if he knows anything about Mervyn’s whereabouts . . .?’
‘That’s it,’ said Sandy Fairbarns.
‘All right. What’s his name?’
‘Jonny Tyson.’
Mrs Tyson had answered the phone. She volunteered that her name was Brenda, but still sounded guarded. Yes, Jonny was at home, but he didn’t like the telephone. What was Jude’s call in connection with?
‘It’s about a friend of Jonny’s. Someone he works with up at Bracketts. Mervyn Hunter.’
‘Ah.’ The name brought instant warmth of Brenda Tyson’s voice. It seemed to come more naturally to her than the initial frostiness. ‘Yes, Jonny talks about Mervyn a lot. They seem to get on very well.’
‘Well, I don’t know if you’d heard, but Mervyn Hunter has escaped and—’
‘Escaped? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Oh dear. Perhaps Mervyn had never mentioned his unusual accommodation arrangements. Or perhaps Jonny had perhaps not mentioned them to his parents.
Still, Jude had stepped too far in for retreat. If she was going to get to see Jonny, the truth would have to come out. ‘Mervyn Hunter’s a prisoner at Austen. He works at Bracketts on a day-release programme they organize.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that.’ But Brenda Tyson didn’t sound too shocked by the news.
‘Well, the fact is that Mervyn’s escaped, and the police are looking for him. They haven’t been in touch with Jonny yet, have they?’
‘The police? Good heavens, no. Jonny’s never had anything to do with the police.’
‘I’m sure he hasn’t. I was just thinking, Brenda, that it might help if I came and talked to Jonny . . .’
‘Why?’
‘So that, if the police want to talk to him – and I think they probably will – Jonny will at least know the background to what they’re talking about.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘I thought it might be less frightening for him.’
Jude’s response to the uncertainty in Brenda Tyson’s tone had exactly the right effect. ‘Good idea. Yes, you come and talk to him.’ Then, hesitantly, Jonny’s mother asked, ‘Is this something to do with that poor woman up at Bracketts . . . the one who . . . you know . . .?’
‘There might be an indirect connection.’
‘Then you’d better come over here as soon as possible.’
A twenty-minute cab drive took Jude to the Tysons’ house in Weldisham, a place which still had dark memories for her. A previous investigation in the village had led to Carole’s kidnapping and a very real threat to her life. But most of the people Jude had met at that time had, for one reason or another, moved away.
That early October noontime, though, the very idea that the village might have a darker side was incongruous. The sky was a deep autumn blue, lazy lines of cloud straggled across the top of the grey-green Downs; the thatch and flint of Weldisham’s houses acted out the fantasy of every tube-bound Londoner.
The cottage outside which Jude’s cab drew up was the most idyllic of the lot. Old red brick with flint facing, thatch which came down low like a generous pie-crust. The front garden was immaculate; no autumn leaf would be allowed more than a temporary sojourn on that fitted carpet of a lawn.
Brenda Tyson had clearly been waiting for her. The studded wooden door, over which climbing rose bushes had been artfully trained, was open before Jude came through the garden gate. A smell of Sunday roast emanated from the cottage, and the woman who stood in the doorway supplemented the image of English home and mother-love.