Suzy held up her hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Sorry. Take it all back.’
‘Anyway, we’re wasting time. Show me what you were going to show me.’
‘All right.’ Suzy removed a sheet of white copier paper from the Hopwicke House envelope she’d taken out of the cupboard.
‘And this is going to convince me that Nigel committed suicide?’
‘I think it will, yes.’
‘Don’t forget you’ve got to convince Carole too. After an entirely characteristic moment of doubt, she’s now back fully committed to the investigation.’
‘This’ll convince her too.’ Still Suzy did not hand the piece of paper across. ‘I’d better explain how I come to have this. You remember, when you found Nigel Ackford’s body in the four-poster room, you came straight down and told me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I went up to have a look. I found a letter under the pillow. Before the police arrived’ – she waved the sheet of white paper – ‘I took a photocopy.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I was confused and shocked, and I suddenly saw all my hard work building up the hotel being threatened, so I just thought, the more information I had . . .’
‘So you never told anyone else about the letter? Like the police?’
‘Of course I did. I wasn’t in the business of destroying evidence.’
‘You say that, but you didn’t tell the police about the threatening note Kerry found.’
‘No, but that pointed towards a possible murder, which would have been a publicity disaster. This letter pointed towards suicide, which was bad, but not as bad. No, as soon as I’d photocopied the letter, I put it back for the police to find.’
‘Surely your fingerprints would have been on the paper?’
‘I suppose they would. I wasn’t really thinking of that. Anyway, when Inspector Goodchild questioned me, I told him exactly what I’d done, so if they did find my fingerprints, they’d know why.’
‘But why on earth didn’t this letter come out before?’ Jude wailed. ‘If proof existed that Nigel had a reason to kill himself, then Carole and I could have saved ourselves a great deal of bother.’
With a rueful nod, Suzy agreed. ‘I know. But Inspector Goodchild told me not to mention it to anyone, and I’ve obeyed him – well, until now.’
‘Why would he do that, though? Because he’s part of the Pillars of Sussex cover-up conspiracy?’
‘Jude . . .’ Suzy shook her elegant head in aggrieved exasperation. ‘There is no cover-up. There’s nothing to cover up. Nigel Ackford died on my premises, which was extremely unfortunate. The preliminary inquest was adjourned, to give the police time to assemble their evidence. When that evidence is assembled, Nigel Ackford will be adjudged to have committed suicide. Inspector Goodchild is a professional policeman. He’s not about to show classified information or evidence to two middle-aged women who have fantasies of being crime-solvers.’
In all their long friendship, Suzy had never before said anything so cruel to Jude, and she regretted it as soon as the words had left her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That just came out. I’ve had it up to here over all this business. As you know, the hotel’s been under threat, and this couldn’t have come at a worse time. You and your friend Carole have made it even worse.’
There was a cold silence. Jude reached out a plump hand. ‘I’d better read it then.’
Suzy handed the photocopy across.
The letterhead was the address and telephone number of a flat in Hove. The contents were handwritten in the elegant italic style favoured by artists, designers and architects. It was dated the day before the Pillars of Sussex dinner.
Dear Nigel
I know you’ve made up your mind, and I know you wouldn’t listen to me on the phone, but I can’t just let you go ahead without one more plea to you not to do it.
OK, I’m not pretending you haven’t got problems, but I’m sure if you calm down and give yourself a bit of space, you’ll be able to deal with them. I know our relationship didn’t work out, and I know you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you love Wendy, but deep down you know you’re gay. You always have known it. And you’ll only ever find happiness when you accept that fact. To fulfil yourself completely, you’re going to end up in a loving relationship with another man. I wish that person could be me. I still can’t totally damp down the hope that, once we’ve spent some relaxed time together, it will be me. But I’m not putting any pressure on you.
What you’ve got to understand, Nigel, is that nobody’s putting any pressure on you – except, perhaps, Wendy, a little. The only person who’s really putting pressure on you is yourself. All your worries about the ethics of your personal and professional behaviour are self-imposed. I don’t mean by that that they’re irrelevant – all the talking we’ve done on the subject should prove that to you – but they’re the kind of anxieties that any thinking person is going to have as he or she negotiates a way through the complexities of life.
For my sake – but even more for your own sake, Nigel – don’t do what you’re contemplating. I know how bad you’re feeling at the moment, but you will come through this patch – I promise you that. You have so much to live for – don’t throw it all away.
With love (and that’s not written with any view to emotional blackmail – it’s just an honest expression of what I feel for you),
Ed
There was a long silence, during which Jude avoided her friend’s eyes. Then she looked up, her face as stubborn as a five-year-old’s. ‘It could be a forgery.’
‘Yes, it could,’ Suzy admitted. ‘But the man’s got a phone number. Why don’t you ring him and find out?’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The flat was in the basement of an old white house in Hove. The space had been well designed and renovated, but too long ago. The exposed pine and the low Scandinavian furniture gave a feeling of the early seventies. So did the white emulsion, which had needed repainting for at least a decade. The grey and white striped curtains, bought from Habitat at its peak of trendiness, now had new stripes where the sun had faded them.
The man who let Jude in also seemed to be a relic of an earlier age: jeans, a faded denim shirt tight over his swelling belly and hair cut long in a style that had been fashionable before the hair became white.
‘Edward Dukesbury,’ he said, and gestured to the crammed cardboard boxes in the middle of the room. ‘You were lucky to catch me. As you see, I’m moving out shortly.’
‘Away from Hove?’
Away from Hove. Away from Sussex. London. I’m afraid this place doesn’t have very happy memories for me.’
Jude did not ask him to elaborate at that point. She was still taking him in, forming her own estimation of the man.
‘Do sit down. Can I offer you anything? Coffee, tea, or I’ve got some wine . . .’ he offered vaguely.
‘No, thank you.’ Jude subsided on to a low sofa, which only seemed to promise comfort to those who lay on it horizontally. She perched on the edge of the cushion.
‘You said you wanted to talk to me about Nigel.’
‘Yes.’
As he lowered himself on to a narrow wooden chair, Jude noticed there was a list on the box in front of him. She saw the words ‘electricity’ and ‘gas’. No doubt things that had to be done before he left. The handwriting was the same as in the letter she’d seen at Hopwicke House.
‘I heard about you through Suzy Longthorne,’ Jude volunteered.
Edward Dukesbury shrugged and shook his head. ‘Sorry, the name doesn’t mean anything to me.’