‘Yes, well . . . Very prudent. If Stephen and Gaby are happy with the arrangement . . .’
‘They are. I’ve discussed it with them, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So I was wondering, Carole, if . . . erm . . . you might be thinking of doing the same.’
‘Leaving my money to these . . . erm . . . conjectural grandchildren?’ Oh God, she was doing it now.
‘Yes. Exactly that.’
‘Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, David, but . . . well, it’s certainly something to consider.’
‘It is. Is there a solicitor who you deal with at the moment?’
Carole almost found herself giggling. But she didn’t think her ex-husband was yet ready to hear about the oleaginous advances of Barry Stilwell.
‘Because I . . . erm . . . I made my will through Humphrey – you know . . .?’
‘Yes.’ Their former mutual solicitor, who had represented David in the divorce. Carole certainly wasn’t going to deal with him. Humphrey was symbolic of a period in her life she wished to blank out completely.
‘But perhaps you wouldn’t want to . . . erm . . .?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Carole agreed hastily. ‘No, if I decide to go ahead with the change, I’ll use someone down here.’ And it wouldn’t be Barry Stilwell. The thought of his having a professional reason to lure her into his new office was not to be contemplated.
‘Right. Well . . . erm . . . good to hear your voice.’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t in all honesty reciprocate. Hearing David’s voice had set all kinds of unwelcome thoughts running through her head and would, she knew, disturb her sleep that night.
‘And . . . erm . . . if not before . . . see you on September the fourteenth.’
‘September the fourteenth?’ came the baffled echo.
‘The wedding, Carole.’
‘Oh yes, of course. The wedding.’
Jude had called Inspector Goodchild, mobile to mobile, as soon as Max Townley left the coffee-shop, but he was actually in his office at the Worthing Police Station. A short walk. Yes, why didn’t she come round straight away?
The fastidiousness and slight condescension in his voice were so familiar she felt she had met him many more times than their one previous encounter. His office was small and institutional, but somehow contrived to look soigné. A couple of well-tended pot-plants and a photograph – not, predictably, of family, but of a Scottish beach – added to the distinction given by his almost foppish charcoal suit. The image resolutely denied that Inspector Goodchild was a standard-issue, insensitive copper.
Jude refused the offer of tea or coffee. He gave her an avuncular look and linked his hands on the desk in front of him. ‘So, Jude, what have you got to tell me? Something new, I hope?’
‘Yes. Well, new to me, anyway.’
He chuckled, and she realized this had been the wrong thing to say. Of course, Goodchild’s look seemed to imply, we in the police have rather more information to hand than a mere amateur could possibly accumulate. Jude’s words had put her on the back foot right from the start of the interview.
‘So, what breakthrough do you wish to confide in me, Jude?’
‘Just that the Pillars of Sussex were not the only people staying on the Hopwicke House site on the night of Nigel Ackford’s death.’
The Inspector gave her a shrewd look, as though she had told him something he hadn’t been expecting, but then let his face relax into a smile. ‘So who are we talking about here?’ he asked blandly, before siphoning all the wind out of her sails. ‘Miss Longthorne’s ex-husband. “Television’s Mr Nasty”? Rick Hendry?’
‘Yes,’ Jude was forced to admit.
Inspector Goodchild steepled his hands together and pressed them against his lips, almost as though he were suppressing a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Jude. We do rather have the advantage of you, you know. You see, appealing and charming though the concept of the amateur detective may be, investigation is actually our job. When we in the force make enquiries, generally speaking people tell the truth. So, though at the time of their stay none of the Pillars of Sussex may have had any idea that they were so close to Mr Hendry, Miss Longthorne told me he had been there as soon as I asked her whether any other people were staying on the premises.’
‘I suppose she would have done,’ Jude mumbled in her humiliation.
‘Yes. She’s a very honest woman.’
Not to me she hasn’t been. But the thought only made Jude more aware of the gulf between her own amateurism and the police’s professional information-gathering resources.
‘But congratulations,’ Inspector Goodchild went on, with a smile of condescension. ‘Well done for working that out.’ He stopped as a thought struck him. ‘Why, may I ask, did you think Mr Hendry’s presence so important? You weren’t about to suggest that he murdered Mr Ackford, were you?’
‘No,’ Jude growled disconsolately.
‘Good.’ Then, with a new hardness in his voice, he continued, ‘Because I would really discourage you from throwing around accusations of murder. That’s the point where your little games cease to be harmless. You might find yourself in court on charges of defamation.’ The moment of censure was allowed to register before the Inspector’s mocking smile returned. ‘So, any other information – or indeed suspicions – you want to share with me?’
Jude decided she might as well press on. She couldn’t make Goodchild’s estimation of her any lower than it already was. Contrary to popular advice, in some holes you might as well keep digging.
‘All right. What about Bob Hartson’s chauffeur, Geoff?’
‘What about him?’ The smile played infuriatingly about his lips. ‘Are you about to drop the bombshell that he was also at Hopwicke House that night?’
‘Well, yes, I . . .’
‘This is so kind of you, Jude – to have gone to so much trouble. Yes, we do know that Mr Hartson’s chauffeur was there. He slept in the staff quarters . . . the converted stable block.’
‘But—’
‘And his movements can be vouched for all the time he spent on the premises.’
‘By whom?’
‘Mr Hartson himself, and his daughter Kerry.’
‘Ah well, you’d expect them to—’
‘And Miss Longthorne herself,’ the Inspector concluded implacably.
Jude felt like a schoolgirl hauled up in front of the head teacher. And with no defence. She had done what she was being accused of.
And Goodchild gave her a full, head-teacherly dressing-down for her breach of the rules. Drawing to a close, he said, ‘It is deeply irresponsible to make random accusations. After a death, people are, not unexpectedly, hurt and confused. They need to grieve, not to have their pain compounded by the insensitive probings of amateurs. So I would ask very firmly, Jude, that you and your friend immediately cease any further investigation into this unfortunate young man’s death.’
Jude still had just enough defiance left in her to demand, ‘So that you can get your nice safe suicide verdict at the inquest?’
‘The inquest has already happened,’ he coldly informed her. ‘As I anticipated, it was adjourned to give us time to gather together our evidence. When that is presented at the reconvened inquest, the coroner will form his own opinion as to the cause of Mr Ackford’s death.’
He didn’t say it out loud, but Jude knew Inspector Goodchild would have bet his pension on a verdict of suicide.
The shingle of Fethering beach crunched beneath their feet. The sea gargled against the sand. Gulliver, quixotically determined to rid the world of seaweed, traced eccentric circles around the two women. The April sun was paling now, but earlier in the afternoon it had held the promise of summer.
The decision to walk on the beach had been vindicated. Jude, furious after the humiliation of her encounter with Inspector Goodchild, had suggested going straight to the Crown and Anchor for a drink, but Carole’s inbuilt Calvinist streak demanded a walk first. Then they would have earned a drink. Rather as her grandmother would make her have a slice of plain bread and butter before she was allowed one with jam on.