‘Really?’
‘And there I found, amongst a whole lot of other stuff … my mother’s death certificate.’ Jude held her breath, allowing Alice to tell the story at her own pace. ‘It had been completed following a coroner’s inquest. It said she committed suicide.’
‘So, you thought your father must have abused her in the same way that …?’
‘What else is there to think?’
There were other possibilities, but Jude didn’t raise them, as Alice went on, ‘I waited for him to come back. He was drunk; he always was when he came back from meeting his insurance lot. He smelled of beer. I remember, as a child, when he … when he came into my bedroom … he always smelled of beer. I can never smell beer without thinking of …
‘He called out to me when he came in through the front door. I’d been down for the weekend, he knew I was still there. I said I was upstairs. I don’t know if he thought that was some kind of come-on. I didn’t say I was in his study. I can still hear his footsteps coming up the stairs, just as I heard them when I was a child. He always used to pause on the half-landing, and I used to hope that he’d change his mind and go back downstairs … but he never did.
‘I waited to come out of the study until he was at the top of the stairs. He looked furious. “What the hell have you been doing in there?” he shouted.
‘“I’ve been finding out how you killed my mother,” I replied. And then, I just went straight forward and pushed him. He was off-balance. He fell immediately. I heard his head banging against the banisters, again and again, as he went down. I knew he was dead. And I thought it was very fair. Primitive justice, if you like. A life for a life, though of course he’d destroyed more than one life.
‘Then I went downstairs, stepping over his body, not even checking whether he was still breathing. I knew he wasn’t. And I watched television until Mum came back.’
The reliving of the experience seemed to have calmed the girl. She looked almost serene, forgetting for a moment the second, more recent, death. Jude could feel nothing but sympathy for her. She felt more determined than ever that Carole would never know how Leonard Mallett died.
Alice’s serenity did not last. Quickly, the pain returned to her ravaged face. She looked at her watch. ‘I must go back to Sorrento. Face the music … or do I mean the police?’ Her look became pleading. ‘And, Jude …’
‘I’ll never tell them.’
‘Thank you.’
As Alice Mallett rose to leave, Jude asked, ‘Is Roddy back at the house?’
‘No.’
‘Oh? Where is he?’
A new layer of fear spread across the girl’s face. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The fact is, last night …’ She chose her words carefully. ‘We had a row.’
‘I’m sorry. Back at the hotel?’
‘At the Craigmullen, yes.’
‘It must have been a very stressful day for both of you.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And did this happen before, before you heard about Heather’s death?’
‘Yes. It was only about an hour after the dancing finished in the church hall. The best man drove us to the hotel. They’d made an effort with the room … champagne and … Then we argued and … Roddy walked out. Our room looked out over the car park. I saw him get into his car and drive off.’
‘You’ve no idea where to?’
‘No.’
‘And you haven’t had a call, a text or …?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I didn’t sleep. I felt terrible. I kept texting him, but … Then, before seven, the police were at the Craigmullen, with the news about Mum.’
The two women looked at each other. Neither voiced the thought, but both suspected that Roddy must somehow be involved in Heather Mallett’s murder.
FIFTEEN
Carole could not pretend to be anything other than disgruntled. She would have hotly denied that she was at the window watching for it, but she did happen to see Alice Mallett’s departure from Woodside Cottage. Of course, she was far too proud actually to ring Jude. But she was desperate to know about the conversation which had just taken place next door.
She waited the rest of the Sunday for Jude to come round to High Tor. Or at least to ring. But she waited in vain.
By the Monday morning, the murder had become public property. Even the front page of Carole’s sedate Times featured a photograph of Heather Mallett, and the tabloid headlines went mad. ‘MOTHER OF THE BRIDE MURDER!’ was one of their milder efforts. But, as ever, the police gave little indication of which way their enquiries were heading.
For the next few days, Fethering locals complained – but were secretly very excited – about the amount of media attention their village attracted. There were noticeably more people out and about, walking along the Parade and Fethering Beach, on the off-chance that their opinion might be solicited by a passing camera crew.
And still Carole heard nothing from Jude. Her frustration grew. By the Wednesday she had become determined to conduct an investigation of her own.
‘Rare sight,’ Ted Crisp greeted her, ‘you in the pub at lunchtime. On your own.’
‘Yes, well, I seem to have been cooped up in the house too much the last few days.’
‘New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc?’
‘Just a small one.’
‘I think we’d better make it a large one. And I’ll just charge you for a small one.’
‘Oh, Ted, you shouldn’t.’ But it was only a token demurral. Just before noon was early for Carole to be drinking. But she was on a mission, which she thought justified behaving out of character. She was pleased to see that her calculation of the timing had been accurate. There were very few customers – even Barney Poulton hadn’t arrived yet to dispense his infuriating homespun wisdom – which gave her the perfect opportunity to pick the landlord’s brains.
‘I assume the Crown & Anchor Choir didn’t happen on Monday?’
Ted Crisp looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d know from Jude that it didn’t.’
‘Oh, I haven’t seen her for a couple of days,’ said Carole airily.
He made no comment, though he knew that the relationship between the two women went through phases of froideur. He also knew that such phases were almost always Carole’s responsibility. During their brief affair – which was never mentioned and still seemed slightly unbelievable to both of them – Ted had got some insight into the complexities of Carole’s personality.
‘Hardly surprising,’ he said, ‘is it? Given what happened to Heather. The choir was so much her baby, I would think that’ll be the end of it now. Can’t somehow see KK pushing on on his own.’
‘Maybe not. Oh well, the vicar will be pleased.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Bob Hinkley was very worried about the Crown & Anchor Choir taking singers away from his church choir.’
‘I didn’t know that. Don’t know him that well, actually. Not a regular pub-goer. From what I’ve seen of him, he seems like a camper to me.’
‘“Like a camper”? I don’t think he’s gay.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that, Carole.’ Ted chuckled, as he always did before delivering one of his jokes. ‘“Camper” – “In tents”. “Intense”. He always struck me as being very intense.’
‘What a loss you were to the stand-up circuit, Ted,’ said Carole drily. ‘Mind you, I agree about our vicar. He does take himself very seriously.’
‘I suppose, if you’re the kind of bloke who does take himself seriously, being a vicar is a natural fit, isn’t it?’