‘So that was how he went to Paris,’ Vera said. ‘Taking his young bride with him.’
‘Yes, he was to head up the European operation. A poisoned chalice. I think they wanted him to fail. They’d fulfilled their commitment by giving him a leading role in the company, but they didn’t really want him.’ Rickard took a sip of water from the glass that had been put for him on the table. ‘I was living in Paris too then. I had the idea that I might write the great contemporary gothic novel, and really I couldn’t continue living in the country with my mother and her incontinent dogs. My income just about stretched to a flat in a not-very-fashionable district.’ He paused again. ‘Roy, Paul’s father, died. A heart attack. Or a broken heart.’
‘He felt that his son had betrayed him?’ Vera asked. Her voice was gentle now.
Rickard seemed surprised. ‘No, nothing like that. He was proud that Paul was so driven. But he missed the business, the meetings with authors and the excitement of new scripts arriving every day. I suggested that he should set up on his own again, but he said he didn’t have the energy. Perhaps he was already ill.’ He stared through the window, lost in thoughts of his own.
‘So you’re in Paris,’ Vera said briskly. ‘You and Paul and Joanna. Did you see a lot of them?’
‘Yes, we met up at least once a week. Paul’s idea, not mine. I’d go to their grand apartment for dinner. A way to get the quality of wine I couldn’t afford on my meagre income. And I suppose I felt a responsibility for Paul after his father died. I never married, never had children. Roy had made me Paul’s godfather. From the beginning it was clear Paul’s position in Paris was untenable. His French was appalling, and he had no knowledge of how things worked in Europe. The attitude to books and writers is still very different there. He was under considerable stress.’
‘Did you know he was beating up his wife?’ Vera’s tone was conversational.
Watching the old man’s face, Ashworth saw that his first impulse was to lie. Then Rickard thought better of it.
‘I guessed,’ he said.
‘That he kept her virtually a prisoner?’
‘If that was the case, it was a very comfortable prison. The height of luxury.’ Then Rickard saw that the flippancy wouldn’t do. ‘Paul was ill,’ he said. ‘Completely irrational. He had a sort of breakdown.’
‘And Joanna was so depressed that she attacked her husband with a knife and then attempted suicide! And, thanks to Paul’s family and friends, she was locked up in a French psychiatric hospital. If I’m not mistaken, you were one of those friends.’
‘If it wasn’t for me, she’d have found herself in a French jail!’ The retort was sharp, and Ashworth saw that Rickard regretted the outburst as soon as it was made.
‘And you expect Joanna to be grateful to you, do you?’
‘Of course not,’ Rickard said. ‘But that was a long time ago and she seems to have rebuilt her life.’
They looked at each other.
‘What about Paul?’ Vera asked, in a way that made Ashworth see that she already knew the answer. ‘Mr Paul Rutherford. What’s he up to now?’
‘He moved on from publishing,’ Rickard said. ‘Remarried, had a family.’
‘And what line of business is he in today?’
Rickard looked her straight in the face. ‘He’s an MEP.’
‘So he is.’ Vera gave a little smile. ‘And doing very well, I understand. It seems he developed an understanding of Europe after all. He’s still ambitious, though. Intending to stand for Westminster next time, so the rumours have it.’ She leaned over the desk towards Rickard. ‘I looked him up, you see, when I knew we’d be having this conversation. Now, you shouldn’t trust the Internet, but I’d say the articles I saw were right about Mr Rutherford.’ She straightened up and her voice hardened. ‘So that’s what you’re doing here, is it, Mr Rickard? Still protecting your godson’s interests? The last thing a prospective MP needs is a charge of domestic violence against him.’
‘No!’ Rickard attempted to stand up to make his point. ‘Since we spent that time together in Paris I’ve felt guilty about Joanna. I wanted to meet her, to check that things were going well for her. It was an impulse when I saw her name on the list of bursary students. An old man’s folly.’
Vera looked at him and said nothing. The silence stretched. The students had gone back to work and there was no sound from the garden. At last she spoke.
‘Things were going very well for Joanna. She’d met a man who adored her and they’d set up home in the most beautiful place in England. She’d found a way to make sense of the nightmare of her younger days, and there was a chance that the story of the abuse she’d suffered might be published. Then she was implicated in a murder. Some might consider that could be a way of getting your pal Paul off the hook. Who’s going to believe a murder suspect when she accuses a respectable MP of domestic violence? And of course she wouldn’t dare, would she? Not in her position now. Last thing she’d want would be to attract the attention of the press.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Rickard said.
‘Aye, isn’t it? Just like something out of those gothic novels you were so fond of in your youth. All madness, conspiracy and drama.’
Rickard struggled to his feet. He was on his way to the door when Vera called him back. ‘How well did you know Tony Ferdinand?’
He turned slowly to face her. ‘I didn’t. I met him a couple of times. Nothing more.’
‘But he reviewed you, I understand.’
Rickard gave a little laugh. ‘The piece in the TLS? Unkind, perhaps but very amusing. It did me no harm.’
‘I read it,’ Vera said. ‘Rather personal, I thought. And it’s hard to believe that you were no more than acquaintances. Publishing seems a very small world.’
‘A world, Inspector, of which I wanted no part. Literary success came late to me and I never believed I deserved it.’
Chapter Sixteen
When they’d finished with Giles Rickard, Charlie was waiting for them in the main house. As Ashworth had predicted, he’d blagged coffee and a slice of homemade cake from Alex Barton and was sitting in the lobby, the front of his jacket covered in crumbs, reading a copy of the Sun.
‘That Alex seems a nice enough lad,’ Charlie said, nodding in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Eh, Charlie, man, you’d like anyone who fed you.’ Sometimes Vera despaired of Charlie. It wasn’t that he was stupid. Not really. Just unobservant, with the judgement of a gnat.
Now they were back in the chapel. They’d shut the door against the cold and Vera thought if she didn’t get some fresh air soon, she’d throw a fit. In the house there had been cooking smells coming from the kitchen and she tried to remember if there was a decent pub along this part of the coast, somewhere they could get a bar meal for lunch and maybe a pint. Though perhaps it would be simpler just to stay here. Alex Barton was a skilful chef. Her mind began to wander. She thought it was an odd existence for a young man like Barton: to be locked up in this house with a load of middle-aged arty types, the only real company a mother who seemed to pine for a more glamorous past.
She thought suddenly that Alex was a bit like Giles Rickard, who had also spent much of his adult life with his mother. Until he came to his senses: Really I couldn’t continue living in the country with my mother and her incontinent dogs.
And like me. I spent my whole life in my parent’s shadow. Hector would have liked a son to create in his own image. Someone with a passion for guns and birds of prey and breaking the law. Instead, he got a daughter with a mind of her own.