The Saturday after Nigel Ackford’s death, she was in the hairdresser’s enjoying one of those weeklies that have redefined – and considerably lowered the qualifications for – the status of ‘celebrity’. In the inevitable synchronistic way that relevant events have a habit of bubbling to the surface at the right moment, she found herself looking at a picture of Suzy Longthorne.
The photograph dated back to the prime of Suzy’s marriage to Rick Hendry, and the accompanying text was all about him rather than her. She was mentioned as a ‘former model’, too old to ring many bells among the youthful demographics of the magazine’s target audience. Rick Hendry would have suffered the same fate, had his career not been revived by new television fame. Famous for his acerbic dismissals of the talents of teenage pop wannabees, he had now reached the coveted status of ‘the man the public love to hate’.
His new celebrity had brought him all the bonuses attendant on television popularity – appearances on chat-shows, at awards ceremonies and in highly paid commercials. The words – ‘I wish I’d been born deaf’ – with which he greeted the worst of the aspirants on the talent show had become a recent national catchphrase. He had even reached the giddy heights of being caricatured by cartoonists and lampooned by satirical television impressionists. The old rocker had certainly reinvented himself for the new millennium.
The photograph of Rick with Suzy was one of a sequence evoking his previous career. There were also shots of him leaving for international tours with his band, squiring other forgotten women, looking beat-up and past-it in the early nineties. These shots framed the main picture which showed Rick with his arms around nineteen-year-old twin girls who had survived the rigours of the talent show to become over-hyped one-hit Number Ones. His famously large teeth were revealed in a lascivious grin, which deepened the engraving of lines on his long thin face. His hair was short and grey. The caption read: ‘As young as the women he feels.’
Jude had met Rick Hendry a few times while he had been married to Suzy. He had always worked hard on his image. The ‘wild man of rock’ was a cunning self-marketer, shrewd about business, tight with his money, ruthless in getting what he wanted. The new incarnation – poison-tongued, ageing enfant terrible – was, Jude felt sure, quite as carefully manufactured as any of the previous ones.
And whoever wrote the text which accompanied the magazine’s photo-spread had clearly bought into Rick Hendry’s self-image.
TV’s Mr Nasty has never made any secret of the fact that he likes beautiful women. ‘And when beauty and talent come together,’ says Rick, ‘the combination is a total knockout.’ Currently single, the ‘Black Mamba of the Box’ isn’t sure where he’s going to strike next. ‘I’m having such a good time playing the field, why should I ever go back to an exclusive relationship? There’s life in the old dog yet.’ And for an old dog who’s made a career out of bitchiness, who can doubt that what he says is true?
Good luck, Rick – and I think we can put that prescription of Viagra on hold for a while yet!
Carole didn’t notice her friend had had her hair done. Jude never emerged with that crisp salon-fresh look. Her hair was just piled up again on top of her head, secured by whatever clips or combs were her current favourites. Only the very observant would have detected a change in its degree of blondness. And that Saturday afternoon as she came rushing round to Woodside Cottage, Carole was far too preoccupied to take in that kind of detail. ‘I’ve just had a call from Barry Stilwell,’ she announced.
‘Oh?’
‘From his golf club.’
She sounded so bewildered that Jude giggled. ‘I see. Not wanting to ring his mistress from home.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ But there had been something conspiratorial in Barry’s tone, which had almost suggested they were sharing an illicit secret.
Jude scratched her newly blonde hair thoughtfully. ‘I’m surprised men bother with that these days. Ringing from the golf club. You can use a mobile to ring from anywhere. You know, mobile phones have really changed the whole complexion of adultery.’
She sounded almost wistfully regretful of the fact, as though some of the fun had been taken out of the game. In other circumstances, Carole might have pressed her for amplification, but she was currently too shocked by her recent phone conversation with Barry.
‘But he wants to meet me again,’ she said.
‘Go for it.’
‘Jude, I can’t. For one thing, he’s repulsive. And for another, he’s married.’
‘Can’t let details like that stand in your way.’
‘I am not the kind of woman who has affairs with married men.’ She knew she sounded terribly pompous, so she added, ‘Or with anyone else, come to that.’ Which somehow didn’t sound right either.
‘Carole . . .’ Jude’s brown eyes fixed hers in an expression of mock-seriousness. ‘There are times when you mustn’t think about yourself. You must set aside your own feelings and prioritize the greater cause.’
‘I don’t think having affairs with married men you can’t stand could ever be defined as a greater cause.’
‘It could if it brings a benefit with it.’
‘What benefit could an affair with Barry Stilwell possibly bring?’
‘Information.’ The lightness had dropped from Jude’s tone; she was completely serious. ‘Barry Stilwell is the only link we have to the Pillars of Sussex. We need to keep in touch with him if we’re going to find out what really happened to Nigel Ackford.’
‘But—’
‘Whether you have to go to bed with him to get that information is up to you –’ Jude grinned ‘– Mata Hari.’
Chapter Fifteen
The emergency call came through at four. Four on a Saturday – Jude had a pretty good idea it would be Suzy Longthorne.
‘I’ve been let down again.’
‘What is it?’
‘Wedding reception.’
‘Who’ve you got?’
‘Max, obviously. The boy who insists on calling himself the sous-chef, and Stella. It’s one of the other girls who’s let me down. Well, not really let me down. Her mother’s ill.’
‘And have you got Kerry?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve got Kerry. For what it’s worth.’
‘OK. I’ll get a cab.’
Suzy Longthorne’s own chequered marital history did not stop her from putting on a good wedding reception at Hopwicke House. In keeping with the new fashion for four o’clock weddings, the guests would not arrive from the church before five-thirty, and by then Jude was neatly packaged in her Edwardian waitress kit, standing in the hallway with a tray of champagne to greet the arrivals.
In this instance, the Edwardian theme had been picked up for the wedding itself. The men were dressed in frock-coats and the women in high-waisted long dresses with lots of buttons. This was quite flattering to most of them, though not to the bride, who didn’t have a waist. Nor could a frock-coat be said to have done much for the groom, accentuating his shortness and making him look like a cross between Groucho Marx and Toulouse-Lautrec.
But it was not the place of Jude or any of the other hotel staff to comment on such things. The whispered bitchiness of the assembled guests was quite sufficient.
Jude was surprised to find she recognized two of those guests. The father of the bride, it turned out, was none other than the president of the Pillars of Sussex, James Baxter. Her godfather was Donald Chew. He was there with his wife, a small thin woman, who exuded disapproval of everything, particularly her husband.
Jude wondered whether the presence of the two men, and the family’s unwillingness to spoil the day’s celebrations, had anything to do with the perfunctory investigation of Nigel Ackford’s death. Or indeed its hushing-up. An unnatural death in a hotel the week before a wedding reception might not be seen as the best omen for the future of a marriage.