“Oh,” said James Lister, somewhat put down. “Have to buy myself a drink then. Will you young ladies…?”
“I’ll get them,” said Jude, leading the way into the Coachman’s Bar. “What would you like, James?”
“Just say it’s a pint of Jimmy’s usual.”
Jude relayed the message. Unfortunately, there was a new barman on duty and James had to spell out that his usual was ‘a pint of Fedborough, in a jug’. Without consulting Carole, Jude also ordered two large whites.
James Lister took a long swallow from his pint, then did an elaborate lip-licking and moustache-wiping routine, before saying, “Ah, that hits the spot.” It was not spontaneous; it was learned behaviour. Both women felt pretty sure that, as a boy, James had watched his father John Lister go through exactly the same ritual.
He looked mischievously from side to side. “Well, aren’t I the lucky one – a thorn between two roses, eh? The old animal magnetism doesn’t seem to have let me down, does it?”
The Japanese couple were no longer there to laugh at this sally, so he cleared his throat and went on, “No, very nice to see you attractive young ladies.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Carole frostily. “We’re not young, James.”
“Jimmy, please. But let me tell you, when you get to my age, every woman looks young. And attractive. Except the wife, of course,” he concluded with a predictable guffaw.
Jude cut through the flannel. “Have you seen Roddy Hargreaves recently?”
“He was in the Coach and Horses lunchtime Friday. Didn’t see him in the evening, because I was on duty. The wife was giving one of her Friday dinner parties. You haven’t met Fiona, have you?” They shook their heads. “A treat in store, I assure you. But Roddy, Roddy, let me think…Oh, yesterday I was off doing a Rotary fundraiser, so I didn’t see the old devil then either.”
“But he’s quite likely to be in the Coach and Horses now, is he?”
“Imagine so. Virtually has his camp bed and sleeping bag behind the counter in there.” A chuckle. “I might go along and join him for a pint later.” He consulted his watch and changed his mind. “Or maybe not. Fiona does the full works for lunch on Sunday. More than my life’s worth to be late for that, eh?” He followed this with another meaningless chuckle.
Jude drained her glass. “Well, thank you so much, James, for – ”
“Erm…” He seemed to want to detain them.
“Sorry?”
“I mentioned my wife gave a dinner party on Friday…”
“Yes?”
“It’s something she does every Friday, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Roddy’s coming to the next one. It’s his birthday, so I actually persuaded Fiona to let me invite him.” The implication was that James Lister’s wife didn’t share hisenthusiasm for Roddy Hargreaves. “And the thing is…” He seemed to be having difficulty getting the words out. “Fiona’s always very interested in new people…I wondered whether you two would care to join us next Friday as well…?”
Carole flushed. “Oh, I don’t think I could possibly – ”
“Yes,” said Jude. “We’d like that very much.”
Thirteen
“Odd, isn’t it,” she said, as they walked from the Pelling Arms along Pelling Street, “how helpful everyone in this town is. For our investigation.”
“What do you mean?” asked Carole. “Are you worried about a conspiracy of helpfulness?”
“Well, think about it. We no sooner get a possible contact who may know something relevant about the mysterious torso than we get a chance to talk to them. You ring Debbie Carlton, she asks you round. We’re told Roddy Hargreaves frequents the Coach and Horses; first time we go in there, we meet him.”
“You meet him.”
“All right. Doesn’t change my point, though. Then for no apparent reason, James Lister, whom again we’ve hardly met, invites both of us round to dinner when we’ll get another chance to see Roddy Hargreaves. To top it all, we’re now going – by invitation – to Pelling House, the scene of the crime…or at least the scene of the body’s discovery.”
“Yes, when you spell it all out, it does sound a bit coincidental, I agree. So is this a conspiracy theory you’re putting forward?”
“I don’t know. Fedborough’s a small town. Everyone seems to know each other’s business. Maybe they’re alljust curious. Maybe they think we have some information about the case they don’t.”
“Mm.”
“Or maybe they’re just trying to find out exactly how much we do know about the case.”
“That would imply they’ve got something to hide.”
Jude’s lips pursed into a wry grin. “Somebody’s definitely got something to hide. Even if we’re not talking about murder, the law still takes a pretty dim view of postmortem mutilation of corpses.”
“So what do you think we should do about it?”
“Ooh, nothing. When you’ve got a favourable wind, you don’t sail in the opposite direction.”
But inside the Coach and Horses, they found their favourable wind had dropped. Roddy Hargreaves wasn’t there.
They walked further along Pelling Street to Pelling House. Jude stepped up the stone steps between the white pillars and raised the large brass doorknocker.
Grant and Kim Roxby didn’t agree about Harry. That was clear as soon as Carole and Jude arrived. They were ushered into the room where the dinner party had taken place. The remains of a large Sunday lunch were on the table. There was no sign of any children.
“Jude you remember…?” said Kim.
“Of course.”
“And this is her friend Carole.”
Grant reached across to shake her hand. He was polite, but there was a tension between husband and wife, as if they had been interrupted in the middle of a row.
Grant had just opened a second bottle of red wine. He waved it as an offering to his guests. They both refused. He topped up his glass, and sat back in his fine old carving chair. He had the look of a man who intended to drink through the afternoon. His face looked tired, and the dyed chestnut hair accentuated its paleness.
“I know why you’ve come, Jude,” he said, “and I can’t pretend that I’m very much in favour of the idea. If Harry does need help, counselling, whatever – and I’m not sure that he does – I think it should come, with no disrespect to you, from a professional.”
“I’m just going to talk to him, Grant. It can’t do any harm. And if it doesn’t do him any good, then you still have the option of consulting a professional.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Oh, come on,” said his wife. “Remember those group sessions Jude conducted out in Spain. You found those really helpful.”
“Yes, perhaps, at the time.” The way he spoke made it clear that, even though his wife was still intrigued by the idea. New Age consciousness-raising was another enthusiasm Grant Roxby had put behind him. “But we are dealing with one of our children here. We want the best for him.”
“Are you suggesting Jude wouldn’t provide the best?” Carole was no more an advocate of alternative therapies than Grant was, but she objected to what she felt was a slight to her friend.
Daunted by the sternness in her pale blue eyes, he backtracked. “I’m sorry. Do what you think’s right, Kim,” he said with a resigned shrug and a long swallow from his wine glass.
His wife took Jude off to find the troubled teenager. Grant still looked rather petulant, a spoilt child whose request had been refused, but he had sufficient mannersto gesture Carole to a dining-room chair and wave the wine bottle again. “Are you sure?”