‘So what we were talking about this afternoon, Suzy – whether I’d be satisfied if I was given a reason why Nigel Ackford committed suicide – well, I guess now I have that reason. I should be completely satisfied.’
‘Thank God.’ Suzy did relax.
‘And I would be completely satisfied,’ Jude went on, ‘if I did not know Edward Dukesbury to be a fraud.’
‘What?’ demanded Sandra Hartson.
‘He’s an actor called Lionel Greaves.’ There was no point in spelling out to them how she’d recognized the face from the old television show, how Carole had asked Gaby to check out the name, and how Gaby had emailed back a photograph taken from the website of the Spotlight actors’ directory.
‘A very good try,’ Jude went on. ‘Nearly had me fooled. But I got a break of good luck. So I don’t know who tried to set up that little treat for me . . .’ She looked round the room. Suzy would not meet her eye. ‘Anyway, whichever one of you it was who briefed Lionel Greaves, I should tell you he got one detail wrong. As a clincher on selling me the suicide theory, the so-called Edward Dukesbury told me he’d been woken by a phone call from Nigel Ackford shortly before he killed himself. The young man apparently rang on his mobile – which is strange, because Nigel Ackford didn’t at the time have a mobile. He’d given his to his former girlfriend Wendy Fullerton, and though he’d talked of buying another one, according to Wendy, he hadn’t got round to it. So . . .’
Jude’s brown eyes gave the room another circuit. Suzy still wouldn’t look at her, but none of the others cracked.
Kerry Hartson, though, was annoyed. ‘Listen, this is my birthday party—’
‘Ssh!’ It was Rick Hendry’s hand that had gone up, and the girl was instantly silent.
He turned to face Jude. The beam of his smile was as big as ever, but there was little warmth in it. ‘Listen, sweetie. I know you’ve always been a bit flaky. Suze always had some friends who were a few joss-sticks short of a bundle. But I want some explanations. Presumably what you’re talking about makes sense to you, but I got lost a long time ago. Edward Dukesbury – Lionel Whatever – who are these people?’
‘Someone here knows very well,’ said Jude doggedly. ‘Or maybe you all do?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Sandra Hartson.
‘I mean I think there’s been collusion between all of you. The efficiency with which Carole and I have been fed ever-changing stories – someone’s been orchestrating that.’
Sandra Hartson still didn’t understand.
‘When you’re threatened,’ Jude went on, ‘you all close ranks, just like the Pillars of Sussex.’
‘I have nothing to do with the Pillars of Sussex,’ Suzy objected.
‘Nor do I,’ her ex-husband agreed.
‘Not directly, no. But you’re all part of the same thing, or you’ve all become part of the same thing.’
‘And what’s that?’ Sandra Hartson posed the question as if she really did not know the answer. Which she possibly didn’t. Sandra was the only person present Jude reckoned might be genuinely ignorant.
She had their attention, so she started to spell out what Carole had relayed to her. ‘There’s a journalist called Karl Floyd, who works for the Fethering Observer, and he got rather interested in the business dealings of some of the Pillars of Sussex. All right, low-power threat. Not too dangerous. He could be controlled by his editor who, like so many important people locally, the Pillars had in their pocket. He could be gagged and sacked if necessary. But Karl Floyd was persistent and, once Nigel Ackford started feeding him information about Renton and Chew, he became more of a threat. Still, he hadn’t got much, and if Nigel could be stopped from giving him more, the threat would go away. That, in my view,’ said Jude boldly, ‘is why Nigel Ackford was killed.’
‘He wasn’t killed. He committed suicide.’ But Suzy no longer sounded as though she believed her own words.
‘That wasn’t the end of it, though. Nigel was out of the way, but Karl Floyd wasn’t. And he was persistent. He started working away at a new source of information, someone much higher up in Renton and Chew, Donald Chew himself. And Donald was getting increasingly unreliable. He was getting less cautious about hiding his homosexuality. Maybe he liked the idea of talking to a young male journalist. And he was also drinking more than ever. He was becoming more of a potential liability every day, and life would be a lot easier if he were off the scene, which of course, conveniently, he now is.’
There was a derisive laugh from Rick Hendry. ‘I’ve heard of conspiracy theories . . . We’re spoilt for them in the rock business. Who sabotaged Buddy Holly’s plane? Did the CIA kill Jimi Hendrix? Who was the actual body in Elvis Presley’s coffin? But yours, Jude, seems to take the biscuit. What is this awful deed that the Pillars of Sussex were perpetrating? And that this intrepid boy reporter was about to unmask. Gun-running? Drugs? Illegal immigrants?’
‘Nothing so dramatic as those. And indeed something that may not even be illegal – though it could engender some bad publicity – and I don’t need to tell you, Rick, how nasty that can be. What Karl Floyd was investigating concerns the business practices of Bob Hartson.’
There was no change of expression on the property developer’s corrugated face, though both his wife and stepdaughter looked anxiously towards him.
‘As we all know, Mr Hartson, you’ve been very successful.’ He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. ‘You have a vast property empire all along the South Coast. You’re very well in with the local planners and all the other great and good of Sussex.’ Still he seemed to think he was being flattered. ‘And as a result, you have a lot of money to invest in new developments and, on occasions to help out people in trouble.’
Bob Hartson seemed to be enjoying this paean to his success and philanthropy.
‘Just as you have helped Suzy here at Hopwicke House.’
As Jude went on, the hotelier gave her a sharp look.
‘In his researches, Karl Floyd found out that what you’ve done for Suzy follows a pattern. You look out for businesses in nice old properties or on attractive sites, and you particularly look out for ones that are having financial problems. Then you offer to invest in the properties, help the people out, offer them loans at advantageous rates. All above board, proper contracts sorted out by your friendly solicitors, Renton and Chew.’
Bob Hartson smiled. ‘You haven’t said anything yet that I wouldn’t be happy to see in the Fethering Observer – or the Sunday Times Business Section, come to that.’
‘No, I agree,’ said Jude. ‘You’ve been very supportive to local businesses. It’s when you withdraw the support that’s significant. The contracts Renton and Chew draw up for you have very specific timing clauses, giving you options to pull the plugs whenever you choose.’
Bob Hartson shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Normal business practice.’
There was the crunch of a large car drawing up on the gravel outside. Jude flinched, recognizing the significance of the sound. But none of the others reacted, so, swallowing down her fear, she continued to outline her argument.
‘But, Mr Hartson, it’s striking in how many cases you’ve withdrawn your financial support at a very bad time, and as a result the owners have been forced to sell up, and then – remarkably – their properties have been bought by one of your companies.’
He still couldn’t see anything wrong. ‘I always offer well over the going rate. Otherwise they wouldn’t sell to me.’
‘And then you sit on the properties until your friends in the planning departments get change of use agreed, and you develop them into housing.’