Jude faced up to her friend. ‘No?’
‘No. Nothing criminal, anyway. We all have personal secrets.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ But Jude couldn’t let it go. ‘Suzy, I’m trying to piece together exactly what happened the night Nigel Ackford died.’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘I’m sorry. I need to. I don’t think he committed suicide, you see. I think someone murdered him.’ There was a silence. ‘Come on, tell the truth – what do you think?’
Suzy’s reply was very measured. ‘I think some things are better left undisturbed. You’ve no idea the can of worms you could be opening up if you continue digging away.’
‘I’m sorry, Suzy. But I care about the truth.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ she snapped back. ‘I care about keeping going, getting through the days. I care about my privacy. If you’d spent a life like mine, you’d give anything for a moment’s anonymity.’
‘I do understand, love,’ said Jude gently. But she still couldn’t leave it. ‘Just answer me one more question . . .’
‘What?’
‘When we were tidying up that night after the Pillars of Sussex dinner, your mobile phone rang. Who was it?’
Suzy Longthorne started to unbutton her overall. ‘I’d better get back to the guests. Would you mind finishing up in here?’
After Suzy had left, Jude became suddenly aware of the Parmesan vomit smell that surrounded her. She nearly spoiled all their hard work by throwing up herself.
Chapter Sixteen
It was early for the phone to ring on a Sunday morning. Barry Stilwell’s tone was once again conspiratorial. ‘Carole, I need to talk to you.’
She had no reciprocal need to talk to him, but, remembering Jude’s exhortations, put a nuance of coyness into her voice as she said, ‘Really, Barry?’
‘Listen. Pomme’s in the bath . . .’ This is more information than I need to have, thought Carole. ‘So I took the opportunity to call you to see if we could meet again?’
‘Sure we could. At some point,’ she replied lightly.
‘This week. Lunch on Monday.’
‘You’re talking about tomorrow?’
‘Mario’s. You know it. And Mario’s the soul of discretion.’
Objections rose within her. Not only did she find Barry Stilwell repulsive, she was also opposed on principle to extramarital affairs. (Though if Barry had any thought of actually starting an affair with her, he had another think coming.) ‘Are you sure that’d be a good idea?’ she asked, rather stiffly.
‘I think,’ he replied, deepening his voice in the manner of some film star he had once seen, ‘it’s the best idea I’ve had for a long time.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Go on, say yes, Carole.’
She was torn between her instinct, her principles, and what Jude had said to her. Loyalty to her friend won. ‘Very well.’
‘Oh, thank you. You don’t know how happy that’s made me feel.’
If you knew why I’d said yes, you wouldn’t feel happy, thought Carole. But she also felt a little frisson of excitement. Maybe she did have a bit of the Mata Hari in her, after all.
‘Mario’s, one o’clock, tomorrow.’ A sudden panic came into Barry Stilwell’s voice. ‘Pomme’s coming out of the bathroom! See you then.’
And the line went dead.
Later that morning, as she let Gulliver scamper around her on Fethering beach, Carole was once again struck by the incongruity of her situation. She, Carole Seddon, was apparently giving the nod to a married man who wanted to have an affair with her. Even more remarkable, to her way of thinking, there actually was a married man who wanted to have an affair with her. A repulsive one, true, but he did exist. That would have been a surprise to her former colleagues at the Home Office. And maybe to her former husband.
When they got back to High Tor, Gulliver was ecstatic to see their next-door neighbour, who had just rung the front door bell.
Jude wondered if it would be possible to have a lift to Brighton.
Brighton was looking its most beautiful that April Sunday morning. The white sea-facing frontages of hotels and apartment blocks reminded Jude of the previous night’s wedding cake. The usual greeny-beige of the sea had made an effort and was giving a fair approximation to Mediterranean blue. People wandered along the promenade, holding sheaves of Sunday papers, some even anticipating summer in shorts and T-shirts.
Brighton in any season never failed to give Jude’s spirits a lift. Carole was a little more old-fashioned about the place. Her thoughts of Brighton were dominated by newspaper headlines about gays and drugs and drunks and divorcees.
So early in the season and so early in the day, she had no problem parking the Renault on the front. Jude pointed up to a tall white monolith. ‘That’s Kerry’s block. Did your parents present you with a flat like that when you were in your teens?’
‘Certainly not.’ The only exotic thing her parents had given Carole was the ‘e’ at the end of her name.
‘I’d like to say come in with me, but I don’t think I’d better. She might clam up.’
‘No, of course not. I don’t want to come,’ Carole lied. ‘I’ll be fine with the paper.’
She had contemplated bringing Gulliver, but he’d already had a walk, and, besides, he sometimes got over-excited in a strange environment. The smells and sights of Brighton beach might well stir him into a frenzy of Labrador silliness. She’d decided she’d be better off with the Sunday Telegraph.
Jude got out of the car, and then looked back in disbelief at her friend, still sitting bolt-upright in the driving seat. ‘Are you going to read the paper there?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a lovely day. You’re on one of the most beautiful seafronts in the country. I thought you might sit outside.’
‘Yes. I might,’ Carole conceded stiffly.
Kerry Hartson’s flat was certainly splendid. A penthouse with a sitting room that looked out over the sea. Very expensive – and ridiculous, really, to be the home of a girl not yet sixteen. Jude wondered whether Kerry had been given it as a present by her doting parents, or if she had to pay rent. From what she’d heard of Bob Hartson, the answer would depend on the tax position. His stepdaughter might be living in the flat, but it was primarily his investment. So if a nominal rent would avoid paying tax on a gift, Kerry would be paying a nominal rent.
Like the girl’s bedroom at Hopwicke House, the sitting room was very untidy, but not dirty. Jude could not imagine Kerry doing the cleaning herself, so no doubt some poor woman with dodgy immigration status was employed to dust round the detritus. CDs, DVDs and all the other essential acronyms of teenage life lay scattered over the floor, along with crumpled foil takeaway packs, dirty glasses and discarded garments.
Kerry herself was dressed in sloppy grey sweats that could have been nightwear or daywear. The room was stuffy and smelt of sleep. MTV pounded from the large screen in the corner, and the girl made no attempt to mute it as she shoved aside some clothes to make room for Jude on the sofa.
Nor did she offer any refreshment. Though on the surface she was her normal, laid-back, rather sulky self, there was a tension in Kerry that morning. Her invitation to Jude at the hotel may have sounded almost casual, but the girl knew something important was at stake.
First, though, she looked derisorily at the girl band sashaying away on the television. ‘They’re hopeless,’ she volunteered.
‘Are they?’ Jude knew she wasn’t qualified to pass judgement on that kind of music.