‘Yes,’ Jude conceded.
‘We must investigate that further.’
‘How?’
‘Talk to Roddy. Talk to Heather. Talk to Alice herself, for God’s sake! Do what investigators normally do.’
‘But that would be virtually making an accusation of murder.’
‘If a murder’s been committed, it’s quite common for the perpetrator to be accused of the crime,’ said Carole sniffily.
Jude still dragged her heels. ‘We don’t know that a murder has been committed.’
‘Oh, come on, Jude.’
‘Anyway, what right have we to investigate? It’s normally the police who do that sort of thing.’
‘Maybe. But the police have been particularly useless in this case, haven’t they?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They never showed much interest, did they? They seem to have been convinced from the start that there was nothing suspicious about Leonard Mallett’s death. If they hadn’t thought that, they would have put some time into detailed checking of the alibis they were given. And they would have found out how easily broken Alice’s was. They just didn’t bother.’
Jude couldn’t deny the probable truth of this.
‘If a crime’s been committed, and the police just sit on their hands,’ Carole stated categorically, ‘then it’s our duty, as citizens, to investigate it.’
Carole could sometimes get very Home Office about issues like this, demanding that the right thing should be done. Jude, on the other hand, had always had a much more fluid interpretation of what was meant by the word ‘justice’.
Carole did not sleep well that night. She berated herself for excessive drinking late in the evening, but knew that was not the real reason for her agitation.
So, she was hugely relieved when, sharp at eight thirty the following morning, she received a call to say that Gulliver was absolutely fine and could be picked up from the vet’s as soon as she wished.
Driving there in her trim Renault, Carole thought about the state she had been in overnight. She had been genuinely worried that she would never see Gulliver again. However hard a carapace she tried to construct around herself, her feelings were still vulnerable to the many unforeseeable accidents of life. And now she had the two granddaughters, the list of her hostages to fortune had increased.
It was nine o’clock when the telephone rang in Woodside Cottage.
‘Hello, Jude. This is Heather Mallett.’
‘Oh, hi. Good to see you yesterday. All the wedding planning in place?’
‘Yes. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wanted to talk about something Roddy said last night.’
‘Ah.’
‘I wonder … would you be free to come round here for a coffee?’
‘Yes, sure. When?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Fine.’ Jude was still in her dressing gown and fleecy slippers, enjoying a cup of instant in the kitchen. ‘Just got to put some clothes on, twenty-minute walk … be with you in half an hour.’
‘I could come and pick you up.’ There was an urgency in Heather’s voice.
‘No, the walk’ll do me good.’
‘You know where we are?’ The common widow’s mistake of using the first person plural.
‘I’ve got the name of the house, and I know the Shorelands Estate.’
‘See you shortly then.’
‘Fine.’
Jude had been to other houses on the estate, but never before to the Malletts’. As she passed the open main gates of the compound, she felt the customary shudder at the sight of the regulations board … all about how dogs must be kept on leads and washing be hung out only on certain days of the week. Not for the first time, she wondered who the noticeboard was actually there for. The residents must all know the rules by now. Which meant that the regulations were on display simply to impress on visitors the level of exclusivity of the estate they were about to enter.
Heather’s house was called ‘Sorrento’. Its style was 1950s Georgian, and it was on the more expensive side of the estate, boasting a garden at whose end a gate gave access to the dunes of Fethering Beach.
Heather ushered her in from the cold, through a rather old-fashioned, wood-panelled hall. Vases of fresh flowers brought a bit of colour but failed to lift the ambient gloom. Jude tried not to look too overtly at the staircase, but presumed she actually was at a Scene of Crime. It was there that Leonard Mallett must have breathed his last.
Her hostess led the way into a sitting room, whose chintzy armchairs and sofas also dated from a previous era. Heather seemed to acknowledge this, waving a hand airily and saying, ‘Once I get the wedding out of the way, I’m going to give the house a complete makeover.’
In the bay window that looked out towards the sea stood a baby grand piano. Heather seemed ineluctably drawn towards it. She brushed her hand over the keys, then picked out the opening notes of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March”. ‘My new baby,’ she said. ‘I always grew up with a piano in the house. When I was a student at Manchester, they were always readily accessible. But after I got married …’ She didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘I’ve just taken delivery of this. Already, I love it.’ She moved reluctantly away from the keyboard.
On a low table was a tray, bearing a cafetière, two National Trust mugs and a matching milk jug. Sugar was not even on offer. So few people took it these days.
Gesturing Jude to an armchair, Heather pushed down the plunger and asked, ‘How do you like it?’
‘Just with milk, please.’
When they were both equipped with coffee, Heather also sat down and began, very directly, ‘The fact that you agreed to come here suggests that you did hear Roddy say something odd last night.’
Jude gave a cautious grin. ‘Not necessarily. It could just be the prevailing vice of Fethering, curiosity to see the inside of another resident’s house …?’
Heather swept aside such triviality. ‘Just to make sure I’m not barking up the wrong tree, what was it you heard that you thought was odd?’ She was covering herself, not giving away any information till she knew how much her guest knew.
‘I didn’t actually pick it up immediately,’ Jude confessed. ‘My neighbour Carole drew my attention to it.’
‘Ah. Yes. That doesn’t really surprise me. Got sharp eyes, that one.’ Then she said, urgently, ‘So what did Carole draw your attention to?’
‘The fact that Roddy was on a course at GCHQ in Cheltenham at the time of your husband’s death.’
Heather Mallett nodded, accepting the extinction of a hope. But she moved briskly on. ‘So, Carole – and indeed you – are aware of the implications of that?’
‘Yes. It means Roddy was lying about being in London choosing table decorations with Alice on the day your husband died.’
‘Mm.’
‘And the alibi for your stepdaughter which he gave to the police doesn’t hold up.’
‘How do you know what alibi he gave?’ asked Heather sharply. ‘Do the police confide in you?’
‘No such luck. Surely you remember? It was you who told us about Alice’s alibi.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Heather wearily. ‘I’m afraid I’ve talked to so many people in the last few weeks about Leonard’s death, that I forget who I said what to.’ She looked directly at Jude, her brown eyes probing. ‘So, what – if anything – are you planning to do?’
‘Do?’ asked Jude, tactically obtuse.
‘Yes. You now know that Roddy was lying about being with Alice on the day Leonard died. What are you going to do about it?’
‘I think Carole and I would probably give different answers to that question.’