Grant’s capitulation provided an interesting sidelight on his marriage. Like many egotists and control freaks, Grant Roxby could be cut down to size quite easily by the right person. The balance of power in the relationship between him and his wife was not as it appeared from the outside.
As Carole walked along to Debbie Carlton’s flat, she felt the quality of Fedborough which Jude had described as ‘spooky’. There was something about the picture-book prettiness of the town which contrived to be at the same time anonymous and watchful. Carole didn’t know many of the residents, but got the feeling they were all aware of her. In that enclosed, incestuous atmosphere, she was an intruder. She’d made more appearances in the town during the last couple of weeks than normal expectations might justify. Her behaviour was suspicious. She was under surveillance.
Carole gave a curt shake of her shoulders to dismiss such stupid thoughts. She’d been listening to Jude too much. All that was happening was that she had been invited to coffee by someone who was hoping to secure a commission as an interior designer; there was nothing more sinister than that. The idea of a town having a personality or an attitude or – heaven forbid – an ‘aura’ was New Age self-indulgence and should be treated appropriately. She was Carole Seddon, for goodness’ sake. Not prone to flights of fancy. ‘Sensible’ was her middle name.
And the attention with which Debbie Carlton showed her the new curtain fabrics suggested that the morning’s was to be an entirely sensible encounter. The speed, however, with which her hostess put the sample books aside and started to talk about the torso would have added considerable fuel to Jude’s conspiracy-theory fire – or would have done for anyone, unlike Carole, who was gullible enough to believe it in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” Debbie said, as she slopped coffee while refilling Carole’s cup. “I’m a bit jittery this morning. Francis is back.”
“Your husband?” asked Carole ingenuously, pretending she hadn’t heard of his return. She noticed that Debbie Carlton was dressed more formally that morning, in a black trouser suit and high heels. Her make-up wasagain impeccable. She didn’t want Francis to see her at anything less than her best.
“Ex-husband, yes. He flew in from Florida on Tuesday. I’m afraid knowing he’s around makes me nervous.”
“But surely you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to?”
“He’s staying here.”
“Oh?”
“He said it was daft to shell out for a hotel when I’d got an empty spare room. He…” Debbie was about to say more, but thought better of it. Carole felt sure there would have been a reference to Francis Carlton’s meanness, which had been hinted at in their previous conversation.
“Why has he actually come back?” she asked, once again feigning ignorance.
“The police wanted to talk to him.”
“About what was found in Pelling House?”
“Yes. I mean, Francis isn’t a suspect or anything like that.” Debbie Carlton didn’t sound totally convinced by her words. “But there were questions the police wanted to ask and he thought it’d be simpler to talk to them face to face…you know, to avoid any misunderstandings…That’s all.”
Her conclusion sounded very inadequate. That couldn’t be all. For someone as apparently mean as Francis Carlton to fly over the Atlantic to talk to the police suggested a degree of…perhaps not guilt…but at least anxiety to put his side of the story without risk of misunderstanding.
“And has he actually talked to them yet?” Carole was having difficulty sounding as uninvolved as she knew she must.
“He had one session with them yesterday.” Debbie glanced apprehensively at her watch. “And he’s with them again now.”
“Going over the same sort of stuff as they asked you? Or hasn’t he confided what they’ve asked him about?”
“Francis didn’t say a lot yesterday evening. Wasn’t here much, actually. There were some local friends he’d fixed to meet in the pub.” Debbie Carlton looked troubled. “Funny, he seems to think he can just behave exactly the same in Fedborough, like nothing had happened, like we were still together.”
“Must be hard for you.”
“Mm. I supposed it’s always the case, in any divorce, that there’s a winner and a loser. He’s got his new life, two homes on opposite sides of the world, and…” She gestured feebly round her Italianate sitting room. “…and I’ve got this. But he doesn’t seem to be aware of the difference.”
“Are you sure that’s not just a ploy, part of some one-upmanship game he’s playing with you?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know how Francis’s mind works. If the divorce has taught me nothing else, it’s made me realize how little I knew the man I spent five years of my life with.”
“So he hasn’t passed anything on to you that the police told him?” Carole eased the question in. “Anything you didn’t already know? Whether they’ve got any further in their thinking about the case?”
Debbie Carlton shook her blonde head. “If they have given Francis any information, he hasn’t confided it in me. But then I’d been quite surprised if he did.”
“Why?”
For a moment she seemed to contemplate another answer, but then just said, “We’re divorced. The time for confiding in each other – if it ever existed – is long past.”
“All right, so you don’t know anything about the police’s thinking on the case. What about your thinking on the case? Your ideas advanced at all?”
Debbie Carlton looked up sharply. “Why should they have done?”
“Having lived in Pelling House, you can’t pretend not to be interested in what happened there.”
“I’m not pretending that.”
“And the fact that your ex-husband has come all the way across the Atlantic must mean – ”
“Is that what they’re saying?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Are the Fedborough gossips saying that Francis must’ve had something to do with the torso, otherwise he wouldn’t have come back?”
“I’ve no idea what they’re saying, Debbie. I don’t live in Fedborough.”
“No, of course you don’t,” But Debbie nodded to herself, as if some conjecture had been proved correct. “I bet that’s what they are saying.” She smiled wryly. “I don’t think Francis’d like that, knowing that the whole town thinks of him as a murder suspect. He has a rather high opinion of himself, he wouldn’t like the idea of not appearing respectable.”
“And if people were thinking as you suggest…” asked Carole gently, “do you think there’d be any reason for them to do so?”
There was a nanosecond of consideration before Debbie said, “No. No, of course there wouldn’t be.”
Carole wondered about the level of innocence in this reaction. She couldn’t forget Jude’s suggestion that Debbie might be deliberately directing suspicion towards Francis, and continued her probing. “But you’ve just admitted you don’t know your ex-husband very well.”
“No, but Francis…It’s unthinkable. He has his faults…He’s vain and a bit tight-fisted…but there’s no way I could see him as a murderer.” And yet her words slowed down, as if the idea were taking root, as if for the first time she was seriously contemplating the possibility of her former husband having some connection with the dead body. “Anyway, we’ve no idea who the torso belonged to. If, when we get that information, it turns out to have been someone who Francis knew or…I suppose in those circumstances, we might all have to think differently about what went on.”
Though her words expressed token resistance, fascination with the new thought was still growing in Debbie Carlton’s mind. Or, alternatively, that was the impression she was trying to give.