Max came back to life, his desolation replaced by a resentful curiosity. ‘Then why did you ask to meet, if it wasn’t about helping me to get on television?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about what happened that night at the hotel.’
Max Townley looked puzzled. ‘We have talked about it. I’ve told you. I was pissed off about being rejected by the Beeb, so I drowned my sorrows in vodka.’
‘Something else happened.’
For a moment he genuinely did not remember anything else happening. Then he said, ‘Oh yes, of course, that solicitor topped himself.’
‘Yes. I wondered what thoughts you had about that?’
He shrugged. ‘Not many. One solicitor more or less in the world – doesn’t make a lot of difference, does it? Some people might even think it was a good thing.’
‘But you didn’t see or hear anything odd that night?’
He didn’t like the new direction of her questioning. ‘You’ve asked me this stuff before. And last time you even insinuated I might have been having it off with Kerry, which I didn’t take to very kindly.’
‘I’m sorry. But you are quite friendly with Kerry.’
‘I’m friendly with lots of people – doesn’t mean I shag them!’
‘No. Incidentally, a friend of mine saw you on Saturday giving Kerry a ride on your bike.’
‘What is this? Under bloody surveillance, am I?’
‘It’s just you saying you haven’t got a relationship with Kerry and—’
‘I haven’t! I was just giving the kid a lift to some audition she wanted to go to in Brighton – all right?’
‘Audition for what?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
His stock of goodwill was rapidly diminishing. Jude became more conciliatory. ‘I’m not getting at you, Max. I’m just convinced that there was something funny about that young man’s death at the hotel.’
‘Funny?’
‘Like it not being suicide.’
‘But—’
‘Like it being murder.’
‘Ah.’ Max considered this idea for a moment, but then decided it didn’t concern him. ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t know. Like I said, I was dead to the world.’
‘You didn’t get up at all during the night? Or hear anything?’
‘I’ve told you – no.’ It sounded genuine. ‘I did wake up at one point, and considered going to see Rick Hendry and throwing myself on his mercy. But then I guess I just went back to sleep again.’
‘Rick Hendry?’
‘Yes. Surely you know he owns Korfilia Productions. It was named after that overblown album he did with his band – can’t remember what they were called . . .’
‘Zedrach-Kona.’
‘Bloody hell, yes. Knew it was something poncy.’
‘Max, you said you thought of going to throw yourself on Rick Hendry’s mercy?’
‘Yes. Well, after the success they’ve had with Pop Crop, Korfilia Productions could sell anything to any of the networks, so I thought maybe I might get him to back me as a celebrity chef. He knows how well I’ve done at Hopwicke House, so I thought if Korfilia Productions backed me, then the BBC would have to listen and—’
‘No, I’m sorry. Stop.’ Jude held up her hand. ‘Why did you think of throwing yourself on Rick Hendry’s mercy in the middle of the night at Hopwicke House?’
‘Because he was there.’
‘That night?’
‘Yes. He was staying with Suzy.’
Chapter Twenty
‘Hello. This is David.’
‘Oh. David.’
‘Remember?’
‘Yes. Of course I remember,’ said Carole. Though she’d tried to put all thoughts of their failed marriage behind her, she still recognized his voice.
‘I was ringing about Stephen . . . and, erm . . . Gaby.’
Instantly she recalled how irritating she had found that little ‘erm . . .’, a mannerism her ex-husband contrived to get into almost every sentence he spoke.
‘Oh yes. It is excellent news, isn’t it? About them getting married,’ said Carole conventionally.
‘Very good. She’s a . . . erm . . . sweet girl, don’t you think? Stephen’s done very well for himself there.’
Carole was forced to admit she had yet to meet their son’s paragon of a fiancée. ‘I’m having lunch with them this Sunday down here . . . well, near here.’
‘Yes, of course. They told me. I was getting my . . . erm . . . getting my weekends mixed up. They’re house-hunting, aren’t they?’
‘There was talk of looking at some properties, yes.’ Carole was amazed at how stilted she sounded. They hadn’t spoken for at least two years, but were instantly back to full awkwardness.
‘Erm . . . Carole . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I was ringing about our wills.’
‘Oh?’
‘I know you changed your will . . . erm . . . after we got divorced.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed with some asperity. ‘It was one of the first things I did.’
‘Yes, erm . . . I didn’t, actually.’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Change my will.’
‘Good heavens!’ So if, during all the years she’d been in Fethering, David Seddon had stepped under a bus or met some other fatal accident, Carole would have inherited.
‘David, why on earth didn’t you?’
‘I just . . . erm . . . didn’t get round to it. I was, sort of, very cut up after . . . erm . . . after what happened, and I didn’t really want to think about anything to do with it, so . . . I . . . erm . . . I knew anything I left would go eventually to Stephen through you.’
‘You didn’t know that. I could have left it to anyone.’
‘Yes, you could have done. But I knew you wouldn’t.’
She was dispirited to realize that he was right.
‘I suppose, Carole, I thought if I met someone else, if I remarried, then obviously I would change my will in favour of . . . erm . . . but there hasn’t been anyone to change it in favour of.’ Then, without much optimism, he added, ‘Yet.’
‘Well, I’m amazed.’
‘Yes. I . . . erm . . . I knew you would be.’
‘But you are going to change your will now?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, absolutely. I am. And that’s the point. I thought I ought to tell you.’
‘There was no need. Since it never occurred to me that I might still be a beneficiary—’
‘No . . . erm . . . it’s the way I’m going to change it that is the point.’
‘Ah?’
‘I’m going to skip a generation.’
‘Sorry? You’ll have to explain.’
‘Well . . . erm . . . the way I see it, Stephen is very well set up for himself, with his work.’ Whatever that may be, thought Carole, yes. ‘And he’s obviously going to be much better set up when he’s married Gaby.’ Another indicator that her future daughter-in-law came from moneyed stock. ‘Two incomes.’ Or at least was well paid for what she did. ‘So I’m going to . . . erm . . . change my will to leave everything to their children.’
‘But they haven’t got any children.’
‘Yet. And, all right, they may never have any. The terms of my will take that into account. If they don’t have any children, then everything’ll go straight to Stephen and Gaby. But if they do . . . erm . . . it’ll be divided among them . . . the children.’
‘Right.’
‘I thought that would be the prudent course to take. Avoid two sets of Inheritance Tax.’