“I agree.” Carole nodded towards Gulliver, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Dogs are much more reliable.”
“What really humiliates me is the sense that everyone else probably knew about it. All the fine folks of Fethering sniggering at me behind their hands and saying, ‘Oh, Hilary’s such a meek little fool. She hasn’t a clue what’s going on.’”
“They always say the wife’s the last one to know.”
“That’s not much comfort!” This outburst prompted a ripple of geriatric interest in the Seaview Cafe. In a lower voice, Hilary Potton apologised. “Sorry. As you may have observed, it still rather gets to me.”
The geriatrics returned to contemplating their cooling and dwindling cups of tea.
“I’m not surprised, Hilary. If it’s any comfort-and I know ‘Time is a great healer’ is a peculiarly unhelpful comment-but things do get better eventually.”
“Thanks for the ‘eventually’-that’s really cheered me up.”
“Sorry.”
“No, Carole. I do appreciate it. I’m sorry. At the moment I’m still just so…blindingly angry.”
“Maybe part of that never does go away.” Carole thought of the way David’s voice, his constant “erms” could drive her into unreasoning fury.
“It’s the selfishness of it that really gets to me. The money, apart from anything else. I mean, I’ve supported Alec all the way in his career. When I first knew him, he worked in a shop. Then I backed his decision to get a marketing training and become a salesman, which meant ‘good-bye, regular salary and hello, commission.’ And I’ve stood by him when times were hard, been prepared to tighten my belt a bit, put Imogen into the state system, dig into my own savings for her orthodontic work, forgo family holidays, that kind of thing. And now I discover that all the time Alec was spending our money-our money! — on squiring various tarts out for meals and booking them into hotels for sleazy sexual encounters. Ooh, it makes me so furious!”
Carole managed to interject a “Yes,” but that was all she was allowed.
“And the effect it’s had on Imogen-that’s our daughter-well, I just daren’t begin to imagine the harm he’s done to her by his selfish and appalling behaviour. I mean, she’s at a very difficult stage of any girl’s life, and Alec’s just adding to the pressure. This is the time when she should be forming her own ideas about the adult world, about how relationships work. What kind of an example is she getting from her father?
“And she’s feeling our change of economic circumstances. Imogen’s absolutely mad on horses, and we were getting near the point of buying her her own pony. But now, oh no, we haven’t got any money for that kind of luxury. We haven’t got any money for anything. We’ve still only got the one car and Alec has first call on that because he has to use it for his work. So that’s extremely inconvenient. And now I’m reduced to the indignity of sitting like a dumb teenager behind the till at Allinstore, simply to pay the grocery bills.”
Hilary Potton had to stop, simply to regain her breath, so Carole managed to ask, “And is Imogen as angry with her father as you are?”
“Huh. No. Isn’t that bloody typical? In a show of classic adolescent perverseness, she’s actually taking Alec’s side. She blames me for some reason. Well, I know what the reason is. It’s because I’m there all the time. I’m the one who does all the day-to-day looking after Imogen. I’m the one who sees she gets fed, that her washing gets done. I’m the one who tidies up after her and has to listen to her whinging about everything all the time. And Alec-as he always has done-just swans in every now and then, and buys her affection with treats. Even now-even when our financial circumstances are so dire-Alec keeps taking her out for meals. And, of course, because she hardly ever sees him, Imogen worships the ground he walks on. Ooh,” she seethed, “until the last eight months I hadn’t realised just how much of a disadvantage it is to be born a woman. We think we’ve all got liberated, we keep being told we have equal opportunities, but when it comes to the crunch, everything is skewed in favour of men. And we’re so powerless to do anything about it. You hear these stories of spurned wives cutting up their husband’s suits or spilling all their vintage wines or smashing up their BMWs, and until recently I’ve thought, Oh, for heaven’s sake, how petty! Recent events have changed my mind, though. I’d do anything I could to get revenge on that bastard Alec.”
Carole’s wish to find out more about Hilary Potton was certainly being fulfilled. In spades. But she reflected that, to unleash such an outburst on a virtual stranger, the woman must have very few close friends. Or maybe her fury against her husband was just so strong that anyone unwary enough to come within range was liable to get caught in the crossfire.
“You say your daughter’s interested in horses…”
“What?” Hilary Potton had to be dragged out of her dreams of vengeance. “Oh, yes.”
“No, I was just thinking…because there was that dreadful business up at Long Bamber Stables. I hope she had nothing to do with that set-up, because it would just be another trauma for the poor girl.”
“That certainly hasn’t helped. She’s still in a pretty bad state. She seemed to be in total shock when she first heard about it. You see, Long Bamber’s the stables where Imogen’s had all her riding lessons. She spends quite a lot of time up there, mucking out and what have you. So, yes, she’s heard all the gory details about Walter Fleet’s death.”
“But-poor child-she wasn’t round there at the time of the murder, was she?”
“No, thank goodness.” Hilary Potton looked affronted at the suggestion. “Safely at home with me, I’m glad to say.”
“Good. And I’m sorry, this sounds very prurient, but since everyone in Fethering is discussing the murder, does Imogen have a theory about what happened? Has she said anything to you about-”
“Shall we go then?”
They’d been too absorbed to hear her approach, but suddenly a girl who Carole assumed must be Imogen was standing beside them. She was wearing a school uniform. Perversely, in spite of the cold, she had her fur- trimmed anorak hooked on a finger over her shoulder. A dyed ginger lock flopped over her spotty forehead. Her expression and body language matched perfectly; both bespoke sulky teenage resentment. Whether or not she’d heard the end of their conversation was impossible to know.
“Yes, Imogen. This is Carole Seddon.”
The girl nodded curtly and gestured towards the door. She was damned if she was going to show any interest in her mother’s friends. She was damned if she was going to show interest in anything to do with her mother. She hadn’t wanted to come to meet her in the Seaview Cafe, and was not about to start disguising her feelings on the subject.
Experience had taught Hilary Potton that trying to get politeness out of her daughter in this mood was a losing battle, so, with a hurried farewell and vague intentions to phone Carole and meet up again, she followed Imogen out of the Seaview Cafe.
Leaving Carole frustrated about her last, unanswered question, and pondering guiltily the effects of marriage breakdown on the children involved.
On that evening’s Radio 4 Six O’Clock News it was announced that the police had released the man they had been questioning about the death of Walter Fleet. Without charge.
12
“So you didn’t get the impression that Hilary Potton was a murderer?”
“No, why should she be?” asked Carole.
“Just that anyone who had any involvement in Long Bamber Stables should be on our list.”
“Well, no, I don’t think she is a murderer. Though I think she’s a potential murderer.”
“Aren’t we all, in the right circumstances?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Carole tartly. “Mind you, the ‘right circumstances’ for Hilary Potton would have to be very specific ones. There is only one situation in which she would murder someone…”
“Ah?”
“…and that’s if the victim were her husband. Then I think she’d be capable of any atrocity.”
“But Walter Fleet was not her husband.”
