‘Who?’
‘The old bald bloke. You know – the Pillar of Sussex who arrived early.’
‘Donald Chew?’
‘That was his name. He was asleep in the bar, wasn’t he? But we don’t know how long he’d been there. Technically he could have had time to put the note in the four-poster room.’
‘And he was Nigel Ackford’s boss, so there are definite connections between them.’
‘Yes . . .’ Suzy Longthorne took a thoughtful sip of wine, then shook away introspection. ‘Still, I really don’t want to think about the hotel. Actually, as I was driving over, I was – for no very good reason – thinking about that photographer who kept coming on to us – you know, back in the sixties. Czech I think he was. Kept saying –’ she assumed an exaggerated accent ‘– “I want you both to come back to my studio, so that we can see what will develop.” Always the same joke. He was dreadful. What was his name?’
And they were into half an hour of giggly nostalgia.
Then, her all-too-short moment of freedom at an end, Suzy had to return to Hopwicke House. She kissed Jude on both cheeks and asked plaintively, ‘Friends?’
‘Friends,’ Jude confirmed.
Only when she was tidying up prior to bed did Jude come across the receipt on which she’d written down the number Wendy Fullerton had given her.
She looked at the large round watch, strapped to her wrist with ribbon. Ten past ten. A bit late for a social call, but . . .
She was answered after two or three rings. To her surprise, it wasn’t a woman’s voice. A young man’s, quite educated, but tense and urgent. ‘Hello?’
‘Could you tell me who I’m speaking to, please?’
‘Karl Floyd. Who’re you?’
‘My name’s Jude.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘I believe you knew a young man called Nigel Ackford . . .’
‘So?’
‘He died recently.’
‘I know that.’
‘And in the weeks before his death he was on the phone a lot to you, so—’
‘That’s enough!’ said the young man with sudden vehemence. ‘Why’s everyone always on to me about Nigel? I’m not going to talk about him. And I’m going to chuck this mobile and get a new one.’
The line went dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Carole Seddon really resented having paid out a hundred and fifty pounds to attend the Pillars of Sussex Auction of Promises. At that price, she thought bitterly, I hope I at least find something that’s relevant to the investigation. As it turned out, she got rather more than she had bargained for.
None of the attendees at the auction would be staying overnight at the hotel. Not that the Pillars of Sussex intended to drink any less than was their custom, but on this occasion they had their womenfolk with them. And, among that class and that generation, one of the marriage vows taken by wives was to drink less than their menfolk at social events, and to drive them home.
Brenda Chew had asked her ‘little group of helpers’ to arrive at six, though the pre-dinner drinks were not scheduled to start until seven-thirty. The early call was avowedly ‘so we can double-check everything’s all right’, though, in fact, it was so that Brenda could reiterate to her helpers how much hard work she’d put into organizing the event, but how she didn’t mind at all, she was used to it.
She was also very concerned with the stage management of her bouquet – at exactly what point in the evening it should be presented to her, and who would say the few words about ‘the infinitely dependable Brenda Chew, who has worked far beyond the call of duty to make this event such a success, and without whom nothing on the fund-raising side of the Pillars of Sussex’s work would ever happen.’
Since, however, the presentation was meant to be a surprise about which she knew nothing, getting her anxiety across with regard to the bouquet was quite a challenge, but a challenge Brenda Chew met with consummate skill born of long practice. Indeed, the finesse with which she managed to make her points without actually mentioning the word ‘bouquet’ might well form the basis for a long-running Radio 4 panel game.
In spite of their rapprochement, Suzy had not called on Jude to help out with the event, but, working with waitress staff Carole had not seen before, the hotelier had yet again transformed the dining room into a magnificent venue. From a centrepiece on each table swirled a display of greenery intertwined with ribbons picking up the colours of the Pillars of Sussex tie. As well as a thick menu, at each place-setting stood a stout auction catalogue with the association’s insignia embossed on the front. Beneath this crest, given appropriate star billing, was printed the name of the evening’s auctioneer.
Carole flicked through and found the promise of ‘A two-hour session of kinesiology given by a well-known professional practitioner.’ So Brenda had decided that the attraction of the package would not be augmented by the addition of Jude’s name.
By a quarter to seven, there was nothing left for Carole to do. All possible double-checking had been double-checked, and Brenda Chew was engaged in indicating to Sandra Hartson and some other helpers the best curtain behind which her bouquet should be hidden. As soon as the week for two in the Hartson’s Spanish villa had been knocked down by the auctioneer, that would be the ideal cue for the flowers to be produced. If Rick Hendry could be persuaded to make the presentation himself, that would also be ideal. Since Brenda was still abiding by the rule of not mentioning the word ‘bouquet’, explaining all this was a complicated procedure.
Carole drifted through to the bar, to find Donald Chew, dressed in a dinner jacket that knew his contours well, sitting there with a glass of whisky in his hand. No surprise, really. Daft to bring two cars and, since Brenda had to be there at six, her husband would have had to tag along. Donald could always be relied on to kill a bit of time with a glass in his hand.
The way he greeted Carole suggested the drink wasn’t his first of the day. He rose unsteadily and enveloped her in a whisky-hazed hug. ‘My dear Mrs Seddon, wasn’t expecting to see you here, though now I come to think of it, entirely logical you should be since you’ve been helping Brenda on the . . . Amazing how much she gets done, Brenda, isn’t it?’ Long habit still did not allow him to mention his wife without an accolade to her remarkable industry, but the words sounded less than heartfelt.
Carole sat down, and Donald subsided with relief back into his chair. ‘Will you have something to drink? Only have to ask the lovely Suzy and . . .’
‘No, thank you. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of drinking later on.’ Carole was very good about alcohol when she was driving. (She had actually been very good about alcohol when she wasn’t driving – until she met Jude.) Like the rest of the womenfolk, she would be restricting her intake that evening.
Still, she had a perfect opportunity to start getting her hundred and fifty pounds’ worth. Jude had filled her in on the truncated conversation with Karl Floyd, which raised some potentially interesting speculations about Nigel Ackford’s private life. And here was Carole fortuitously sitting next to the young man’s boss.
‘Mr Chew . . .’
‘Oh, please, call me Donald,’ he said expansively. ‘Out of the office. This is a social meeting, not a professional one.’
‘Very well. Then you’d better call me Carole.’
‘I would be honoured to, Carole.’ Still very much the conventional gentleman of the old school. And yet there was something else in Donald Chew, something else beneath his bonhomous exterior. Carole had been aware of it on their other meetings, but never so strongly. The drink seemed to have weakened his facade, and what showed through looked very much like pain. Carole found herself wondering what life was really like inside the Chews’ marriage. Why had they not had children? Why was Brenda so obsessively busy all the time? Why was she constantly seeking approval? And, come to that, why did her husband drink so much?