‘I didn’t know that.’
‘No, well, he only told me on the night—’ Jude wished she hadn’t embarked on that sentence, and quickly changed direction. ‘So you don’t know why Bob Hartson might have wanted to cultivate Nigel?’
A quick shake of the head, then a silence. The girl took the first sip of her water, and looked at her watch. Jude hadn’t got long.
‘Thank you very much for seeing me, Wendy.’ She scribbled a number on a paper napkin. ‘That’s my mobile. Do give me a call if—’
‘If what?’
‘If you find out anything else about how Nigel died.’
The girl looked blank. ‘That’s not very likely, is it?’
Jude had to admit that it probably wasn’t. ‘No. I know this must be a difficult time for you.’
After a moment of bemusement, the girl said, ‘Oh, you mean because of Nigel’ She considered the idea, as if it hadn’t occurred to her before. ‘Yes . . . I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. I’m afraid my first reaction was, like, relief. Awful, but maybe that’s what he wanted. He won’t be unhappy any more.’
‘No.’
‘And . . . well, it has, like, made certain decisions for me. Our relationship wasn’t going anywhere, it had to end at some point and . . .’
She looked at her watch again. Jude wondered what further information she could get before this particular window closed.
But Wendy had already slipped off her stool and was saying, ‘I’d better be getting back. End of the week, things to tidy up.’
‘Yes. Once again, thank you very much for making the time to see me.’
The girl lingered, though. There was something else she wanted to say, but she wasn’t finding it easy to get the words out.
‘Jude . . . you mentioned on the phone that Nigel said something about me – you know, when he was drunk.’
Of course. Jude had completely forgotten the pretext on which she had arranged their meeting.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry. He did.’
‘What did he say?’ The question tried to sound casual, but failed.
‘He said he was going to ask you to marry him.’
Wendy Fullerton winced, as though she had just been stabbed.
‘And he said he felt pretty confident that you’d say yes.’
The facade of insouciance cracked. Tears welled and spilled, making rivulets in the girl’s thick armour of make-up.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I’ve fixed to go up to the hotel tomorrow morning,’ Carole announced. ‘To have a look around. So any thoughts as to what I should look out for would be welcomed.’
‘Well . . .’ Jude buried her fingers in her bird’s nest of blonde hair as she concentrated. ‘Certainly ask to see the four-poster room on the top floor. The murder scene.’
‘We don’t know that it was murder,’ Carole reprimanded her puritanically.
‘Don’t nitpick.’
‘But the girlfriend wasn’t surprised by the idea that he’d committed suicide.’
‘No, I know that. He was depressive, he had threatened to kill himself. I’m just convinced he didn’t.’
‘I agree with you completely.’ Behind the rimless glasses, there was a rare twinkle in Carole’s pale blue eyes. ‘But we mustn’t get carried away.’
‘Why not?’ asked Jude pugnaciously. ‘Why is everyone in this bloody country always so terrified of getting carried away?’
Carole looked across the cluttered sitting room at her friend. Jude didn’t usually behave like this. Normally she was very grounded, secure in her own space.
Reading her thoughts, Jude explained, ‘I’m sorry. I’m letting this get to me. It must be because I saw the boy so soon before his death. I can’t stop thinking of the waste. And that’s sort of mixed in with my distaste for all-male organizations like the Pillars of Sussex. I’m sorry, it’s just . . .’ Tears glistened in the large brown eyes.
Carole found herself in a rare role reversaclass="underline" she was calming Jude, rather than the other way round. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find out what really happened to Nigel Ackford. That’s the only thing that’s going to make you feel better.’
Jude nodded gratefully.
That Saturday morning the South Downs glowed in the spring sunshine, as Carole’s Renault made its sedate way up to Hopwicke Country House Hotel. There were no other buildings nearby, no other cars on the road, nothing to betray the passage of the centuries. The perfectly proportioned square mansion must have looked like this, Carole thought, when George Hopwicke first took possession of it.
She left the car in the guests’ car park, and walked round to the main entrance. As ever, the set-dressing of the hall was perfect, transporting her back into a BBC costume drama. The props placed her in the eternal afternoon of the Edwardian period, innocent of the coming horrors of the Great War.
The only discordant note was the soundtrack. From the bar, the latest ersatz girl group squeaked away on Radio One. Carole rang the small silver bell on the antique reception desk.
Nothing happened. The music continued.
She moved across the hall towards the open door of the bar. A small portable radio on the counter was revealed as the source of the noise. In front of it, side-on to Carole’s view, a slight blonde teenage girl in blue skirt and white smock overall was gyrating in time to the music. Her right hand held a feather duster in lieu of a microphone, into which she lustily sang along with the radio.
‘Good morning. You must be Mrs Seddon. Excuse me.’
Carole hadn’t heard Suzy Longthorne’s entrance. She watched as the slender hotelier crossed to the bar. ‘Could you switch that off, please, Kerry.’
The words weren’t said with much emphasis, but there was no doubt they represented an order rather than a request. The music vanished in mid-squeak.
No one could have lived through the years Carole had without seeing images of Suzy Longthorne. Even someone as resistant to trendiness as she was could not have avoided that iconic figure. On many occasions Suzy had progressed from the fashion sections of the press to the news pages.
And, despite her innate resistance to the person who Carole thought of as ‘Jude’s friend Suzy’, she could not help being impressed seeing her in the flesh. The auburn hair gleamed, the hazel eyes sparkled, and it cost a lot to get a black wool trouser suit that looked that casual.
‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind my coming. My son’s thinking of staying here and asked me to have a look round.’
Whatever Suzy Longthorne may really have thought about having her premises vetted, she was far too well-bred and professional to let any negative feelings show. Maybe in better times she would not have agreed to guided tours. When Hopwicke Country House Hotel was the sought-after destination of the glitterati, perhaps its qualities could be taken as read. In the current, American-free, chillier climate, Suzy Longthorne could not risk losing a single booking.
She led her potential customer through into the bar. Kerry was now assiduously dusting the racked bottles behind the counter, but Carole got the impression her industry was solely for her employer’s benefit. The moment Suzy was out of sight, the movements would become more lethargic. And the moment she was out of earshot, Radio One would probably reassert itself.
Carole tried to think of a pretext for speaking to the girl, but none came to her. Jude would have thought of something. But then of course Jude knew Kerry, anyway, so she wouldn’t have needed a pretext.
Carole was duly appreciative of the bar and adjacent dining room. She cooed at the conservatory where she was told breakfast and afternoon tea were served, and admired the wonderful views up over the Downs. She was suitably impressed by the residents’ lounge and the library. Though she was fairly certain her son wouldn’t need to take advantage of the conference suite, she thought that, too, was very well appointed.