Before Jude could ask for further elucidation, he went on, ‘Tragic business, I agree, young Nigel. I read in the paper recently that more young men than ever are committing suicide. Most of them have probably got a better lifestyle than any previous generation, and yet they keep topping themselves. Never understand it . . .’
He moved across to the window, seeming to blot out a disproportionate amount of the view, and spoke more softly. ‘So many lovely things in the world, and yet some people just can’t see it. Look out there. Sea – beautiful spring day – who’d want to give up on all that, eh?’ He laughed lightly. ‘Do you know, Jude, this is one of the few views in West Sussex where you can’t see anything that belongs to me.’ Another little laugh. ‘Well, except for Geoff down there in the Jaguar. What I mean is that from here you can’t see one of my developments, and that’s because all this flat looks out on is the sea. Of course, if you were out there in a boat, you could definitely see one of my developments.’
‘This block?’
‘That’s right. Derelict when I bought the place. Bedsits. Totally run down. And look at it now. People say a lot of harsh things about developers. I like to think we do a lot to bring new life to old buildings.’
Since she hadn’t accused him of anything, Jude was finding this self-justification rather odd. He went on, ‘Like most successful ventures, the development business is all about timing and spotting potential. You have to be able to see what you can do with a site and be bold and imaginative. Look ahead. There are places that “informed opinion” says will never get planning permission. Don’t believe them. Governments change. Policies change. Priorities change. Everything becomes possible sooner or later.’
Having delivered himself of this property developer’s credo while looking out over the sea, he turned. Backlit against the window, his expression was invisible to Jude, but she could hear the new force in his voice. ‘Listen. I know you’re upset by what happened to that boy. We’re all upset – me, Kerry, the other Pillars – it’s the kind of thing nobody wants to happen. But it was suicide. In spite of any details that might suggest an alternative scenario. Even that threatening letter Kerry found, I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation for that.’ His voice became soothing, but did not lose its strength. ‘Jude, the police seem convinced it was suicide. I would imagine the coroner will think the same. So I don’t really think it’s a good idea to go around stirring things up. I’m sure we all love the thought of playing detectives, of proving wrong-doing – all dramatic stuff. But not in this case. Here, what you see is what you get. And what everyone sees, and I think you should see too, Jude, is the tragic case of a young man’s suicide.’
There was nothing equivocal about Bob Hartson’s manner. She was being warned off. And, for that very reason, she couldn’t let it rest there.
‘Mr Hartson, could you just confirm what Kerry told me about where she was that night?’
Even though she still couldn’t see his face, she observed the spasm of anger that passed through his body. But by the time he replied, he had regained control, and his voice was silky smooth. ‘I don’t know what Kerry’s just told you. I can only give you my version of what happened, and if my daughter told you different, then she’s lying.’ Jude felt a surge of excitement, which quickly dissipated as he went on, ‘After everyone left the bar, Kerry came up to my room with me and a friend. We all drank some whisky, then Kerry left us, my friend and I had a final noggin and he went off to his room about two o’clock, I suppose.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Hartson.’
He stepped away from the window and sat down, before looking smugly at his stepdaughter. ‘So what did Kerry tell you? I’ve no idea.’
‘I told her the same, Dad.’
‘The truth. Good girl.’ He turned back to focus the patronizing beam of his smile on Jude. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’
‘Yes, please.’
There was a twitch of annoyance at the corner of the developer’s mouth. ‘What?’
‘Who was the friend, the other Pillar of Sussex, who came back to drink with you in your room?’
‘His name,’ Bob Hartson replied with suppressed annoyance, ‘was Barry Stilwell.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘But that’s impossible,’ said Carole as they drove back through the bungaloid sprawl that separated Brighton from Fethering. ‘Barry doesn’t drink whisky.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He told me he never touched spirits. Doesn’t like the taste.’
‘He wasn’t just saying that? Maybe he tells his wife – the sainted Pom-Pom – that he doesn’t touch whisky, but when he’s back with the boys . . .?’
‘I don’t think so. He volunteered the information to me when we had lunch at Mario’s last week. Pomme wasn’t there. He had no reason to feel pressured about it.’
‘True. That’s very interesting, Carole. I do hope you’ll be seeing Barry Stilwell again soon.’
‘Well . . .’ In spite of herself, Carole blushed. ‘I am supposed to be meeting him again for lunch tomorrow, but I’m not sure that I really should . . .’
‘Of course you should. It’s your duty, Carole. In the cause of truth.’
The spark in Jude’s eye sent up the pomposity of her announcement, but there was a core of seriousness in what she said. Carole knew she had no choice but to continue betraying her sisterhood with Pomme.
‘I wondered what your verdict was,’ asked Stephen.
‘What?’ Carole couldn’t imagine what her son was talking about. She was still getting over the surprise of his ringing on a Sunday evening. Their relationship was not on a relaxed enough footing to take that kind of event in its stride.
‘Your verdict on the hotel. You said you were going to have a look at Hopwicke Country House Hotel for us.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ So caught up had she been in what Jude would have described as ‘the murder investigation’ she had completely forgotten the real purpose of her visit.
‘Well, the hotel’s delightful. Lovely position, very nice rooms, wonderful menus. Of course, it is pretty pricey.’
‘How much?’
‘A lot. But if you stay two nights including a Saturday, there is a special deal for—’
‘Gaby and I can only stay for the one night. How much would that cost?’
Carole told him the prices Suzy had quoted her.
‘That’s fine,’ he said, without a moment’s reflection. ‘We’ll go for that four-poster room.’ Carole couldn’t get used to the image of her son as a big spender. Maybe he’d always had it in him. Or was it just the influence – and income – of Gaby that had moved him up to another level of expenditure? Carole felt the familiar guilt at how little she really knew Stephen.
‘Do you have the number there to hand, Mother? Save me the cost of a call to directory enquiries.’ So down at the bottom end of the financial scale he was still capable of penny-pinching.
‘Oh, by the way . . . did you ask about availability for the weekend? I don’t want to waste a call if they’re fully booked.’ Once again the instinct for parsimony asserted itself.
‘They certainly had rooms free when I was there. And I didn’t get the impression they were expecting a sudden rush of bookings.’
‘Fine. OK. Gaby and I will see you there for lunch on Sunday. Arrive twelve-thirty.’
And thus Carole was dismissed. As she put the phone down, she realized she should have said something about being very excited at the prospect of meeting Gaby. But the moment had passed.