“I do. Anyway, many thanks for the tea, and good to see you.”
“Yes. And I’ll give you a call about…” In the presence of Imogen, Sonia Dalrymple was embarrassed about her client status with Jude and didn’t want to discuss the details of her next appointment.
“Yes, fine,” said Jude, understanding immediately. “Well, Imogen, shall we be on our way?”
The television chat show that Carole wouldn’t admit to anyone she watched was beginning to exercise quite a strong hold over her. Though the idea appalled her, she was conscious of beginning to schedule her day around the programme. Oh dear, she was becoming old and set in her ways. Part of the afternoon elderly, target market for all those stairlifts, annuities and walk-in baths they kept advertising in the commercial breaks.
Carole felt little guilt about her secret vice. She enjoyed the programme and there was nothing wrong with that-so long as nobody ever found out she was actually watching it.
But even her favourite chat show could not completely eradicate from her mind the unease planted there by her nonconversation with her daughter-in-law. Stephen and Gaby hadn’t yet been married six months-surely things hadn’t soured that quickly?
Maybe Carole would have to ring Stephen and question him about the situation. It wasn’t a prospect she relished.
Her programme came to an end, and Carole stayed to watch the news. That was an indulgence she could always justify. It was important, as one got older, to keep abreast of current affairs. That night’s offerings weren’t very edifying-more people killed in pointless international wars and intractable civil ones, a minor royal committing yet another gaffe, the government setting up another target destined never to be attained. The mixture as before.
It wasn’t until the local news came on that there was an item to surprise Carole. And the surprise wasn’t a pleasant one. The previous night two mares had been slashed at with knives at a stable yard in West Sussex. The incident had taken place west of Horsham, some way away from Fedborough and Long Bamber Stables, but the news was still unsettling.
Jude had an exceptional knack of getting people to talk to her. Even the most buttoned-up individuals usually succumbed after a few minutes to the easiness of her company. But she made very little headway with Imogen Potton.
As they walked back along the Fether through the gathering dusk, overtures about school, tastes in music and television, even her beloved Conker, were cut short by curt monosyllables. The girl kept just to the right side of rudeness, but she left no doubt that she’d rather be on her own. Her instinct was to run off and leave Jude; only the fear of her behaviour being reported to Sonia Dalrymple and ending her riding rights prevented her from doing so.
Imogen had started by trailing behind her minder, swinging her battered riding hat at her side, but, soon realising that this formation opened up too much danger of Jude looking back and making eye contact, she now marched resolutely ahead.
“Will there be someone at home when you get there?”
The girl couldn’t refuse to answer such a direct question. “I think my Dad’ll be there. Mum works late on a Thursday.”
“What does your mother do?”
“She serves at Allinstore.” Fethering’s only-and highly inefficient-supermarket. “Money’s been tight since they started the divorce proceedings. Mum thinks the work is very definitely beneath her.” Imogen seemed to derive some satisfaction from her mother’s discomfiture.
“So what time will she be back?”
But the brief window of communication was closing. All Jude got was a terse “Later.”
“Well, look, if you have any problems, or you’re left on your own too long this evening, give me a call.” Jude stopped for a moment and scribbled down her mobile number. The girl hadn’t waited for her and Jude had to hurry to catch up and hand it across. Silently Imogen shoved the scrap of paper into the pocket of her puffa jacket, but not in the manner of someone who was ever going to use it.
Jude tried again. Surely the murder of Walter Fleet would get some reaction from the girl.
“Horrible, that business up at Long Bamber, wasn’t it?” Silence. “You know, the reason why Conker and Chieftain have been moved back to the Dalrymples’.”
“I do know what you’re talking about,” said Imogen pityingly.
“It must have been a shock for you.” Jude persevered. “I mean, because you spent so much time up at the stables.”
“I didn’t spend much time there.”
“But I thought you looked after Conker, helped with the mucking out?”
“Not very often.”
This seemed a direct contradiction to what Sonia Dalrymple had said, but Jude didn’t question it.
“And you must have known Walter Fleet quite well.”
“Not that well. He was just an old guy who was around, that’s all.”
Old? Early forties. Jude wondered how old Imogen thought she was. “But he and his wife ran the place. You must have had quite a bit to do with him and-”
“I didn’t know him well,” the girl said firmly, and to emphasise the ending of the conversation, ran a few steps ahead. “We’re nearly there.”
The River Road destination to which Imogen led the way was a substantial family house, probably with four or five bedrooms. Though Sonia Dalrymple had dismissed Alec Potton’s earning potential, and it was as nothing compared to her husband, he must have been doing pretty well to buy a property like that in Fethering. But the house was showing signs of neglect. The exterior paintwork was blistered and flaking, and the front garden had grown shaggy. Its lack of maintenance seemed all too straightforward a symbol for the dividing family within. The blank stare of the unlit windows with undrawn curtains was distinctly unwelcoming.
“It’s all right. You can leave me here,” said Imogen when they reached the garden gate.
“No, I’ll see you in, check there’s someone there.”
“I am fourteen, you know. I am capable of being in the house on my own. In fact, I spend most of my time in the house on my own. It’s not a problem.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s just see if there’s anyone in.”
“For heaven’s sake, I can be left alone! You sound just like my mum, not letting me be on my own for a single minute. Either she’s got to be there, or she’s got to fix up for Dad to be there or…”
Imogen let out one of those exasperated sighs that only teenage girls can do properly, and stomped off up the garden path, reaching for her house key. She opened the front door, turning to bar entrance to Jude. Her unwanted escort was being given a very definite message to leave.
“So, is there someone in?”
“Yes, of course there is. Da-ad!”
But the only answer to her long call was an echo in the empty house. Imogen looked taken aback, then let out another louder wail, which again produced no response.
“He said he’d be here. He promised to be here.” But resignation quickly overcame disappointment. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. You can go.”
“But couldn’t you give your father a call on your mobile to-”
“If he’s not here, he’s doing something else,” said Imogen sharply. “Work probably. He’s on the road somewhere. I can’t disturb him when he’s working.”
“But surely he’s…”
Jude’s words trailed away at the sound of a car drawing up behind her and Imogen’s eyes brightening with recognition.
“He’s here. You can go.” Even the pretence of politeness in her words had now slipped away.
Jude turned to see a tall man emerging from a rather grubby BMW. “Sorry, Immy love, got delayed.”
Alec Potton was in his early forties, louchely stylish in a shapeless corduroy suit. In spite of his receding hair,
