‘Well, that’s very kind, Wally.’
‘No problem at all. Be in a brown envelope with “Jude” written on the front in my almost-legible scrawl.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Incidentally, I’m very glad to hear you’re going to take up the game.’
‘I’m not absolutely sure that I—’
‘You’ll love it. Takes about ten years to get used to the dimensions of the court and the scoring and what-have-you.’ Exactly what Oenone Playfair had said. ‘After that it’s plain sailing.’
‘Well, I’ll certainly do my best to work it all out,’ said Jude.
‘And, incidentally –’ Wally Edgington-Bewley paused and his voice became deeper, more personal – ‘I’m so glad that Piers has got you . . .’
‘Oh?’
‘. . . you know, after all he’s been through.’
Which didn’t do a lot to make Jude feel more settled. She was becoming preoccupied with how much she didn’t know about Piers Targett.
SIX
On the Wednesday morning Jude got a cab from Woodside Cottage to Lockleigh House. She could have asked her neighbour for a lift in her Renault and the request would undoubtedly have been granted. Despite her denials, Carole was infinitely curious about Jude’s life and wouldn’t have turned down the chance of a visit to Lockleigh House . . . not to mention the possibility of catching a glimpse of Piers Targett.
But for the time being Jude was inclined to play things close to her chest. If her relationship with Piers continued, there would undoubtedly come a moment when his introduction to Carole would have to be made. But Jude was in no hurry to rush that encounter. Carole had met a few of her lovers over the years, but never one about whom she was so serious.
Following Piers’ instructions, Jude had managed to get together a white ensemble suitable for Lockleigh House. It was a while since she’d worn the shorts and she had to breathe in quite severely to get them on. Picking one of many white cheesecloth shirts was less of a problem and the top she chose was voluminous enough to hide her struggling waistline. She also succeeded in tracking down some white socks and a battered pair of whitish trainers. Piers had advised that they’d change at the court, so she packed her kit into a woven straw basket of African origin.
It was a perfect autumn day when the cab dropped her at the gates of Lockleigh House. Though there had been rain during the night, that had gone now. The air felt crisp so early in the morning but with a promise of warmth later. The Victorian mansion looked huge and impressive. The Wardock family must have had many children to fill its fourteen bedrooms, or more likely the space was designed to accommodate all the guests who attended long country weekends. The house looked to Jude like the perfect setting for a game of Cluedo.
The high, wrought-iron main gates of Lockleigh House were locked (though members of the tennis club arriving by car had electronic cards to open them), but Jude had been instructed to enter the premises through a small door to one side of the gates.
Once inside, she looked up at the high rectangular bulk of the real tennis court, standing at some distance from the house. Before the Sunday she wouldn’t have had a clue what the building might be used for; now she couldn’t imagine it being anything else.
Piers was already there, leaning against the side of his E-Type, basking in the thin October sun. There was one other car parked outside the court, a substantial silver BMW.
His smile of welcome was warm, but somehow strange. After the intimacy of their weeks together, the two days of separation had made Jude feel almost awkward at re-meeting him.
But his kiss was reassuringly familiar. He did have exceptionally full, soft lips for a man.
As they drew apart, he said, ‘It’s been too long,’ in a voice of mock heroics. ‘I will never again let you escape my web of enchantment. And soon you will be bound to me closer than ever.’
‘Oh yes? How’s that?’
‘Soon you will have fallen under the spell of real tennis, and then our shared obsession will allow you no escape route.’
‘Really?’ said Jude drily. ‘Suppose I don’t like the game?’
‘Impossible,’ he said as he moved towards the court building. ‘I couldn’t possibly be in love with someone who didn’t like real tennis. Come on, don’t let’s waste a minute of our booking.’
The door had a keypad entrance system. ‘We only have to use this when the pros aren’t here,’ said Piers Targett. Then he tapped in a code, the door gave and he ushered Jude inside.
After the raucous jollity of the Sec’s Cup, the lobby in which they found themselves seemed almost unnaturally silent. The door to the court itself was closed. ‘Better get you a racket,’ said Piers, and led Jude into a small room just inside the entrance. ‘This is where the pros hang out,’ he said.
A closed door with a glass panel showed into an office with the usual assemblage of laptops, printers and telephones. In a glass-fronted case in the outer area was displayed a selection of white kit, each item bearing the Lockleigh House logo of crossed rackets with a fish above them. Purple and green stripes also featured. Supported on pegs on one wall was a row of rackets. Piers took one down and felt its heft in his hand. ‘A bit heavy for you, I think.’ He replaced it and tried another. ‘This is a better weight, but it’ll probably be easier for you if you have a bigger grip.’ He found a racket that met all his criteria and solemnly handed it across to her. ‘Take it in your hand and feel the first tricklings of your lifelong obsession.’
Jude grinned. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Just do the lights.’ He reached into a cupboard to flick a switch.
‘Are they on all day?’
‘Pretty much. Switched on by the first person to get to the court in the morning, switched off by the last one to leave in the evening. But they’ve got sensors to turn them off if there’s no activity on court. Keeps the electricity bills down. Lockleigh House tennis court doing its bit for the environment, eh?’
Piers opened the door and led the way along the passageway at the side of the court, down towards the club room and changing rooms. As he did so, he glanced to his left on to the court and stopped stock still.
‘Oh, my God!’ he breathed.
Lying on the court, more or less in the position where he’d fallen on Sunday, lay Reggie Playfair. He was not wearing tennis whites, but a smart business suit with some kind of club tie.
And the glazed expression on his congested face left no room for doubt about the fact that he was dead.
SEVEN
In her online Lady in the Lake researches Carole Seddon had by now weeded out the eccentric, ghoulish and frankly demented references and had found only two leads which, while they might not provide a solution to the problem, did at least offer sanity. The first was a posting from a man called Dmitri Gascoigne, who was convinced that the bones found in Fedborough Lake belonged to his wife Karen. He had set up a rather primitive website called What Really Happened to Karen Gascoigne? which had the air of the unvisited. The most recent update was nearly four years previously, so Carole got the feeling that Dmitri Gascoigne’s campaign had maybe run out of steam.
The other – and to Carole’s mind more promising – lead was to a woman called Susan Holland. Her blog made clear her conviction that the Lady in the Lake was her daughter, Marina, last seen in Brighton over eight years previously. From the way she wrote, Susan Holland came across to Carole as a very level-headed woman, not a hysterical over-reactor. If she suspected the dead body to be that of her daughter, then she had good reasons for those suspicions. Carole was also attracted to the woman by the reference to Brighton and the surname Holland, which was quite common in the Fethering area. Both of these clues suggested that Susan Holland might be a local.