‘Yeah. Manufactured,’ Kerry continued knowledgably. ‘Came up through Pop Idol.’
‘Ah?’
‘Telly show,’ the girl elucidated. ‘They haven’t got any real talent.’
‘Unlike you?’
This wasn’t as rude as it sounded. In previous casual conversations Kerry had made no secret of her desire to make it in the pop world.
‘I got a better natural voice than any of them.’ She spoke as if this were an unarguable fact. ‘With all the right grooming – singing lessons, dance classes, designer clothes . . . yeah, I could make it.’
‘Good luck. I hope it happens for you.’
The girl smiled slyly. ‘Oh, I think it will.’
Was this just the confidence of a child whose parents had always told her she was wonderful? Or did she imagine that, like the flat, success in the music business was something her stepfather could buy for her?
Still, they hadn’t met to discuss Kerry’s career prospects. Since beating about the bush had never been Jude’s favourite mode of approach, she moved on to the main agenda. ‘You said you’d tell me what you were doing the night Nigel Ackford died.’
‘Yes. I didn’t see him – Nigel, the one who died – after I left the bar. He was drinking with all the others. That’s the last I saw of him.’
‘It wasn’t his movements I was asking about, Kerry. It was yours.’
The girl was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I went on drinking with my Dad. After the bar closed, he said he’d got a bottle of whisky in his room, so we went on up there.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘No, there was another of Dad’s friends with us.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t remember his name. He was one of those Pillars of Sussex.’
‘Of course he was. They all were.’
‘Yes. Anyway, that’s what I was doing.’
The girl seemed relieved, and her eyes strayed back to MTV. She had answered the question; so far as Kerry was concerned, the interview was over.
But Jude hadn’t got enough information. Or rather, she was intrigued by the small amount of information she had been given. If that was all Kerry had to say on the subject, then why hadn’t she answered back at the hotel? They had been alone in the kitchen. There was no one there to overhear or question Kerry’s version of events. So why the mystery? Why had the girl dragged Jude all the way to Brighton for so little?
The only possible explanation must be that consultation had been required. Kerry had wanted to talk to someone before she detailed her whereabouts on the night of Nigel Ackford’s death. And Jude had a pretty good idea of who had been consulted.
As if to confirm her conjecture, at that moment the door to the flat was opened with a key, and Bob Hartson walked in.
Carole was perhaps too protective of her independence. She had an inbuilt resistance to obeying another person’s agenda, even when she knew it made good sense. So, although she did follow Jude’s advice and read her Sunday Telegraph outside the car, perversely she sat in a shelter out of direct sunlight, and with her back to the sea. She therefore saw the Jaguar draw up outside the block opposite, and stay parked on the double yellow lines. She saw the large man get out, but since she’d never met Bob Hartson, had no means of identifying him.
As she allowed the Sunday Telegraph to confirm her right-of-centre views, she occasionally looked up to see the Jaguar still there, its driver playing on a Gameboy. He looked absorbed, content to sit waiting. Presumably that’s what being a chauffeur requires, thought Carole, infinities of patience, and always being at someone else’s beck and call.
She didn’t think it was a job that would suit her.
Bob Hartson’s presence filled the room. He was wearing white chinos and a green polo shirt, tight against his biceps. Though beginning to give way to fat, his body was still deeply muscled, and seemed tense with unspoken threat.
‘Hello, angel.’ He grinned across at his stepdaughter, who ran obediently to give him a big hug. Daddy’s little girl.
He took in Jude’s presence, but without surprise. She was convinced he knew she’d be there. Bob Hartson stretched a paddle of a hand towards her. ‘Hi. We met at the hotel last week.’
‘Hardly met. I was there waitressing.’
‘Well . . .’ The big man shrugged. He wasn’t going to be picky about details. He was friends to everyone. The image he wanted to present that morning was of bonhomie, the magnanimous family man coming to visit his daughter.
‘Just been playing golf,’ he volunteered, and laughed. ‘I didn’t think it was possible, but I swear I’m getting worse at that game. When I’m standing over it with a club, the bloody ball seems to have a mind of its own. You ever play golf, Jude?’
That proved his appearance was a set-up. Bob Hartson wouldn’t know her name, if he hadn’t discussed the morning’s rendezvous with his daughter.
‘I’m afraid I could never see the attraction,’ Jude replied.
‘Oh, it’s compulsive, you take my word for it. Like everything one can’t do, eh? And don’t let’s pretend, it’s also a very useful part of one’s business life. Wouldn’t believe the number of deals that get sewn up on golf courses, Jude.’
‘I think I probably would.’
He chuckled. ‘Well, if one can’t mix a bit of business and pleasure, then what’s life for?’
He really was going out of his way to be pleasant to her. But there was still an undertone of menace in his presence.
‘So just dropped by on my way from golf –’ he grinned at Kerry ‘– to pick this little lovely up. Geoff’ll drive us home. Geoff’s my driver,’ he added for Jude’s benefit.
‘Yes, I met him at the hotel.’ Since the name had come up, she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. ‘Incidentally, on the relevant night at the hotel . . .’
‘Mm?’ The grin hardened on Bob Hartson’s face.
‘Geoff slept in the stable block, didn’t he, just like I did?’
‘Well—’ Kerry began to reply, but her father’s voice overrode her.
‘Yes, that’s right. Then he joined me for an early breakfast and drove me back to the office.’ He gave his daughter another grin. ‘Just as he’s about to drive us back to get some of your mum’s nice home cooking inside you. All very well, this independent living when you’re just a teenager, but you need your parents to fall back on. I don’t think you’re quite up to doing the full Sunday roast with all the trimmings, are you, angel?’
Jude doubted whether Kerry was up to any meal preparation that involved more than picking up the phone for a takeaway. If she was, she had shown no signs of it in her work at Hopwicke House.
‘Presumably, Mr Hartson,’ said Jude, ‘you know why I’m here this morning?’
He raised his eyebrows in what she knew to be false ignorance.
‘Because of Nigel Ackford’s death,’ she prompted. ‘Kerry asked me to come here, so she could tell me what her movements were on that particular night.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right.’ He spoke as if he were pulling the recollection from the deepest recesses of his memory.
‘Of course, it must have been very upsetting for you, Mr Hartson.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, you must have known Nigel Ackford well. He was your guest, after all, wasn’t he? At the dinner?’
‘That’s right. He was my guest, but he was more an acquaintance than a friend. I invited him along to the Pillars as a kind of favour to his boss who’s been a friend of mine for a long time.’
‘Why didn’t Donald Chew take Nigel Ackford along as his own guest?’
Bob Hartson showed the tiniest of reactions to the fact she knew the name, then shook his head indulgently. ‘There’s protocol involved in being a Pillar of Sussex. I could explain it to you, but . . . how long have you got? Just take it from me, it wouldn’t have done for Donald to take along one of his own staff as a guest.’