‘The danger of damaging publicity, yes. There are always other dangers to a business like this, mind you, so I can never relax. Recessions, lack of bookings, international crises, Americans still pussy-footing about travelling abroad. If I want to worry, I can always find something to worry about.’
‘So why have you stopped worrying about the bad publicity?’
The hazel eyes turned curiously towards Jude. ‘I told you. The young man’s death was reported in the local paper, and Hopwicke House wasn’t even mentioned.’
‘And what about the old man’s death? Are you confident that will be discreetly reported too?’
‘Yes. I am, actually.’
‘And is that because the editor of the Fethering Observer and Detective Inspector Goodchild were both here on Saturday night when it happened?’
Suzy Longthorne framed her face in two hands, which she swept up through her auburn hair. ‘That may have something to do with it. Oh, stop looking at me with righteous indignation, Jude.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Yes, you were. If there’s one thing my years of the so-called “celebrity lifestyle” have taught me, it’s that you need people to fix things for you. And if you get an offer of having something fixed, then you’d be very stupid to turn it down.’
‘Even if what is being fixed for you is the cover-up of a murder?’
‘If I thought a murder had been committed, Jude, I might feel differently. But I don’t.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. From the moment you found that young man’s body, you have been the only person in the world who thought it was murder. Well, maybe you’ve convinced your friend Carole too. Nobody else thinks it was anything other than suicide.’
‘Then why did they all start making excuses and fabricating alibis?’
‘For reasons of their own. For self-protection. To avoid bad publicity. Not because they thought they were murder suspects.’
‘But—’
‘It’s you who planted that idea, Jude. And all the questioning from you and your friend Carole just got people more nervous, so they started to make up new stories to get you off their backs.’
Jude’s brown eyes returned the hazel stare. ‘Do you sincerely believe what you’re saying, Suzy?’
‘Of course I do.’ She laid her long hands palms upwards on the table, pleading. ‘God, Jude, how long have we known each other? Can’t you tell when I’m speaking the truth?’
‘Yes. I can.’ But Jude wished she could have said it with more conviction. ‘Very well. Say Nigel Ackford did commit suicide – what about Donald Chew?’
‘It was an accident. He fell down the cellar steps.’ Suzy sounded weary now. ‘All right. Maybe I should have checked that the door was locked. But I can’t do everything.’
‘No.’ There was a silence between them. ‘Suzy, I can’t deny it’s very convincing. Suicide and an accident. Certainly a much more appealing explanation than two murders.’
‘Then, for heaven’s sake,’ demanded Suzy, her weariness now turning to exasperation, ‘why can’t you believe it?’
‘I just can’t.’ Feeble, she knew, but the only answer Jude could come up with. ‘Maybe I could if I hadn’t heard what Nigel Ackford said the night he died. They weren’t the words of someone about to kill himself.’
‘And that’s all? If you had a reason why he should have done it, then you’d believe the death was suicide?’
‘Yes,’ said Jude. ‘Yes, I would.’
‘Right,’ said Suzy. She lifted herself out of her chair and crossed to a small cupboard set into the old beams for the barn. ‘I’m not meant to show you this, but I think the moment has come when I’ve got to.’
The young man at the end of the phone sounded wary. Yes, his name was Karl Floyd and he did work for the Fethering Observer.
‘And you’re there as an investigative reporter?’ asked Carole.
It had been the right thing to say. Whether or not her description was rather overstating his role, there was a note of pride in his admission that yes, he was an investigative reporter.
Now she had to take a risk. The minute Jude had mentioned Nigel Ackford’s name to Karl Floyd, their conversation had been ended very abruptly. But then the young man had been on his mobile. Now he was at work. If she just phrased it right . . .
‘I might have some information relevant to one of your enquiries.’
‘Oh yes?’ He was interested, but still cautious. ‘Can you tell me who I’m talking to, please?’
‘That doesn’t matter for the time being.’ Another calculated risk. But Carole reckoned she’d got him hooked, and didn’t want to give him any excuse to put the phone down. The fact that his informant was a middle-aged retired woman from Fethering High Street might do just that.
Now the biggest risk. She was guessing, and if her conjecture was wrong, she could look forward to a very quick end to their conversation. ‘The enquiry I’m referring to is the one you had been talking about to Nigel Ackford and Donald Chew.’
Total silence from the other end of the line. Carole raised the stakes of her risks further. ‘About Renton and Chew?’
Still silence, and she started to worry she’d made a conjecture too far.
Then Karl Floyd spoke. ‘What do you know about them?’
Carole felt herself relax. She’d been right. He’d admitted he had been investigating Renton and Chew.
‘I’d rather not talk on the phone. Would it be possible for us to meet?’
‘I’m not in the habit of meeting people whose names I don’t know.’
‘Very well. My name’s Carole Seddon.’
‘Oh.’
His intonation was blank, could have been approving, could have been disapproving. In case he was about to put the phone down, Carole said quickly, ‘I am a client of Renton and Chew.’
Thank God, that did it. ‘OK, let’s meet. I’d better tell you, though, that even if I do get all the facts for this investigation together, there’s a strong likelihood that the Fethering Observer won’t run it.’
No, it’ll be spiked by the editor, thought Carole, while he counts down the days to full-time sea fishing. The Pillars of Sussex would close ranks, as ever – particularly now they had a cosmetic presentation job to do on the death of Donald Chew.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘There are other newspapers.’
Again she’d hit the right note. Every young journalist still dreamed of the huge international scoop. All the President’s Men must have been obligatory viewing during their training.
Karl Floyd’s flat turned out to be in Fethering, within walking distance from High Tor. He’d certainly be back from work by seven. Carole arranged to go round and see him then.
She put the phone down with a huge glow of satisfaction. This was a breakthrough. There was no question now about her contributing her fair share to the investigation. Immediately she dialled Jude’s mobile number.
‘Who was that?’ asked Suzy as soon as Jude ended the call. ‘Sorry, am I being nosy?’
Her friend grinned. ‘Well, you are, but that’s nothing new. It was Carole.’
‘Ah.’
‘She’s tracked down another link in the chain.’
‘Sorry?’
‘There was someone Nigel had been in touch with a lot in the weeks before he died called Karl Floyd. I spoke to him once on the phone, then he vanished. But good old Carole’s tracked him down.’
‘Of course,’ said Suzy. ‘I keep forgetting it’s not just you.’ She giggled, ‘We’ve got two matronly supersleuths on this case, haven’t we?’
‘Less of the “matronly”, thank you very much.’ Jude’s large bosom swelled in mock affront. ‘Just because some of us haven’t spent our entire lives staying young and beautiful, it’s very mean of you to snipe.’