‘What about Rick Hendry, or Bob Hartson?’
‘The only Rick Hendry I’ve heard of is the former rock musician, but I’ve never met him. And the other name – sorry, never heard it.’
‘What about Donald Chew?’
‘I know that was the name of Nigel’s boss at work, but we never met.’
‘So you haven’t heard what happened to him?’
‘No.’ The ignorance in the watery blue eyes appeared genuine. But Edward Dukesbury wasn’t interested in the fate of Donald Chew; he was keen to move on. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me about Nigel. Did you know him?’
‘I met him once. The night before he died.’
‘How come?’
‘I was working at Hopwicke Country House Hotel.’
‘Ah.’ The man looked puzzled. ‘Then I don’t see why . . .’
‘I just wanted to be sure that he committed suicide.’
‘What?’ There was authentic surprise in the voice.
‘That there wasn’t some other explanation for his death.’
Edward Dukesbury let out a bitter laugh. ‘What other explanation could there be? You don’t hang yourself by accident.’
‘No. But I thought . . . You knew him well. Perhaps you could tell me why you think he did it.’
For the first time there was wariness in the pale eyes. ‘Why did you come to me? How did you get my phone number?’
‘I happened to see a copy of the letter you wrote to Nigel Ackford the day before he died.’
‘Ah.’ Her answer satisfied him, and brought a new resignation into his tone. ‘Are you police? I’ve already talked to Inspector Goodchild. I thought that would be the end of it.’
‘No, I’m not police. I’m just interested in what happened.’
Her lack of official authorization didn’t seem to concern him. ‘Well, since you’re here, ask what you want to ask. Nigel’s dead. Nothing we say can harm him any more.’
‘You and he had a relationship?’
Without embarrassment, he replied, ‘Yes. We were lovers, on and off, for over a year. Nigel had problems with admitting he was gay. He even moved in with a girlfriend to try and cure himself, but it was never going to work.’
‘Wendy.’
‘That was her name, yes.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
He shook his head.
‘Was the sex thing the reason why Nigel killed himself?’
‘Part of it. Like a lot of young men, Nigel was uncertain about his own identity. Sexual orientation was part of the problem, but he was also worried about doing the work he was doing.’
‘Being a solicitor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why, was there something criminal going on at Renton and Chew?’
Another short, bitter laugh. ‘Not so far as I know. No more than in any other solicitor’s office, I imagine. But Nigel sometimes thought he should be doing something more useful to the world, something that actually did some good. We used to talk about it a lot.’
‘Why? Is your work more useful to the world?’
He smiled cynically. ‘Might be, if I had any work. I’m an architect by training. Was quite successful in the sixties and seventies, but now . . .’ He gestured feebly, needing no more explanation than the flat around him. ‘Trouble is, I started letting my conscience get in the way . . .’
‘Oh?’
‘Got rather involved in environmental issues. Tried only to do projects that would actually improve the world around us. The nineteen eighties weren’t the best time to have principles like that.’
‘But surely the climate’s better now? There’s more awareness of the environmental consequences of development.’
He didn’t look convinced. ‘There’s a certain amount of lip-service, yes. Projects get stopped because they threaten the habitat of some little-known field mouse. And the big developers go through a major charade of environmental consultation before they submit their plans. Some of them even have their own in-house environmental consultants. But, as ever, there’s a big difference between the plans that are approved and what actually gets built.’
He sighed. ‘Maybe I’m being too cynical. Maybe, if I was starting out now as a young architect, I’d be full of idealism and the belief that I could actually make changes. And maybe I could. Now, though, at my age – I’m too old and defeated.’
‘And that was the kind of subject you and Nigel used to talk about?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because Renton and Chew works with property developers.’
‘I’m sure they do. Anyone in business is going to need contracts sorted out, that kind of thing. There’s always work for solicitors to do.’
‘But you say Nigel never worried he was being asked to do anything illegal?’
‘No. I think he just thought he’d reached a crossroads in his life. He could hang on to his principles, the kind of ideas I talked to him about, or he could just get on with his career, take the money and close his mind to the consequences. And that was exactly paralleled in his private life. He could ask this Wendy to marry him, and spend the rest of his days pretending to be something he wasn’t – rather as he implied his boss did. What’s his name? Donald Chew, that’s right. Apparently he’s gay, but has maintained the facade of a marriage for a long time. Anyway, those were the pressures Nigel was under. And the fact that he couldn’t cope with those pressures was the reason why he killed himself.’
‘Had he talked about suicide to you?’
The white head nodded, and the blue eyes became even more watery. ‘Yes. He did get bad moods. Well, he was a depressive. I kept telling him to go to his doctor, get professional help, but Nigel could be very stubborn at times.’
Jude stayed perched in silence on the edge of the sofa. Then she asked, ‘Was the letter you wrote the last communication you had with Nigel?’
‘No.’ He was almost weeping now. ‘I wish it had been. I could have done without the phone call.’
‘What phone call? When did that happen?’
‘The night . . .’ Tears trickled down his lined face as he tried to get the words out. ‘The night he was at the hotel, the night he . . . Nigel phoned me in the small hours. He woke me up.’
‘What time would this have been?’
‘About four o’clock. I don’t know exactly.’
‘And what did he say?’
Again the words didn’t come easily. ‘That he was going to kill himself. He said he’d just woken up and realized things were never going to get better. He’d made up his mind.’
‘But he was incredibly drunk. I don’t think he was capable of—’
‘I wish you were right, wish he had just passed out that night. But no, Nigel was coherent enough to do what he had to do.’
‘Didn’t you think of calling the police?’
‘No,’ the architect replied flatly. ‘By the time they got there, it would have been too late. Anyway, if that was what Nigel had decided to do . . . Also, quite honestly, I’ve had enough tangles with authority in my life. When I was growing up, just for me to express my sexuality was illegal. I’ve been through plenty with the police over the years, so after Nigel’s call I didn’t fancy the idea of picking through my most painful emotions with some insensitive flatfoot.’
‘But the police did talk to you?’
‘Of course they did. They saw the original of the letter that brought you here. There’s no way they weren’t going to talk to me after that. Oh yes, I did my time with Inspector Goodchild. I’d love to have escaped that pleasure, but I didn’t.
‘I’m afraid, you see, I’m not one of those people who regards the truth as the most important thing in life. I would say, over the years, I have generally received more comfort from lies. Sorry, not a very public-spirited citizen, am I?’
Jude’s mind was moving fast, trying to find some logical objection to what she had just been told. ‘The phone call!’ She clung to the thought. ‘If Nigel called you that night, the call would have registered on the Hopwicke House switchboard.’