She pulled it out. A scrumpled cardholder’s copy of an American Express transaction. On which the name of the signatory could be clearly read.
Alec Potton.
Jude wrapped up the gloves in the bloody Barbour, trying to reproduce exactly the previous creases and to set the bundle in exactly the same place under the makeshift bed.
Then, with Carole still looking like a finalist in the Miss Paranoia Competition, they went back down the ladder and left the Dalrymples’ stables.
They were well away from the house and on the tow path back into Fethering when they heard the approaching sirens. But they were still close enough to see the pair of police cars hurtle up the road and turn into Nicky and Sonia Dalrymple’s drive.
23
This was another of those many occasions that brought home to Carole and Jude the frustrations of being amateur investigators. The police had arrived at the Dalrymples’ house only moments after they had made a discovery that could have enormous bearing on the search for Walter Fleet’s killer. But the two women had no means of knowing if that was why the police had turned up. And, if they had come in search of that evidence, who had tipped them off as to where they would find it?
An even more troubling thought-particularly to Carole-was that someone had seen her and Jude “breaking and entering” and had tipped off the police. She lived in fear of a knock on the door of High Tor, leading to criminal charges.
But, not for the first time, all Carole and Jude could do was to wait for public announcements on news bulletins, and keep their ears close to the groundswell of Fethering gossip.
This last was certainly a flowing source, not to say a torrent. Something said in the Crown and Anchor would be quickly repeated (with embellishments) in Allinstore, whence it would pass and grow in size through the media of bakery, off licence and hairdresser. Within hours, everyone in the village seemed to know about the police going to the Dalrymples, and there were as many theories about their reasons for doing so as there were inhabitants to entertain them. The trouble was that none of these conjectures was based on any more information than Carole and Jude had, and a lot of them were frankly loony. When she first arrived in Fethering, Carole had quickly reached the conclusion that listening to village gossip was the way madness lay, and nothing that had happened since had done anything to change her opinion.
So the two women spent a restless and unsatisfactory few days until, on the Monday’s World At One, it was announced that the police were questioning another man in connection with the death of Walter Fleet.
The jungle drums of Fethering beat loud for the next hour, and, once the wilder rumours had been eliminated, there seemed to be a credible consensus that the man being questioned was Alec Potton.
“Jude?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Sonia.”
“Ah, hello.” Jude just stopped herself from asking about the discovery in the hayloft; of course she didn’t know about that. “Are you still at Yeomansdyke?”
“No. I’m back home. I was summoned back here by the police.”
“Oh, really?” Jude continued to feign ignorance.
“They had a tip-off about something found in our stables. Something to do with Walter Fleet’s murder, apparently.”
“Good heavens. Maybe that also has something to do with Alec Potton being taken in for questioning.”
“Oh, is that what’s happened? I hadn’t heard.” Jude couldn’t be certain, but she got the impression that Sonia was lying. Either that, or she hadn’t spoken to a single person in Fethering over the whole weekend.
“You told me you knew Alec Potton…I wondered-”
“Well, I’ve met him. He’s picked up Imogen from here the odd time. I wouldn’t say I know him.” She seemed anxious to move on. “Anyway, as you can imagine, Jude, this has all been very stressful…”
“I’m sure it has.”
“…and I was wondering if I could book a session with you-you know, balancing? I mean, I’m sorry I had to cancel that one on Thursday.”
“Don’t worry. I’m free tomorrow morning. Would that suit you?”
“Oh, it’d be wonderful.”
“Say…what? Ten? Eleven?”
“Ten’d be good.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
“Oh, and, Jude…”
“Yes?”
“You know how you got Donal to work on Chieftain?”
“Mm.”
“Do you know where I can find him? Donal. I need to talk to him.”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. He seems to have gone to ground again.” No need to tell the reason why. Ted Crisp had been very insistent that the stabbing in the Crown and Anchor should be kept quiet.
“Oh. Oh, that’s a pity.” But the way Sonia said the word, it sounded more like a tragedy.
Jude gave assurances that she’d put Donal in touch if she met him again, and their phone call ended. Puzzling, why Sonia was so desperate to make contact with the ex-jockey. For the second time. Increasingly, from her client’s behaviour and from what Donal himself had said, Jude was becoming convinced that Sonia Dalrymple was the target for his blackmail demands. But of the dark secret he possessed, she had no idea. It might be related to what Jude now felt sure was Nicky Dalrymple’s violence against his wife, but she had a feeling there was more to it than that.
Still, one positive confirmation had come out of her conversation with Sonia. The evidence that had led the police to Alec Potton had been what they’d found in the Dalrymples’ hayloft.
Fethering Beach that Monday afternoon was resolutely monochrome. When the sun shone, the colours came to life, like a child’s Magic Painting splashed with water. Then the blue in the sky drew out the blues and greens of the sea. The weed on the beach sparkled like a carpet of emeralds. Then the sand was-if not golden-at least a rich biscuity yellow.
But not on that dour late February day. The idea that a sun existed anywhere seemed an unlikely fabrication. The sea was leaden, and the sky a darker lead. The sand was the grey of damp cement. Even the coat of Gulliver, scampering around like a host at a failed party trying to inject some life into the proceedings, was another shade of grey in the unremitting gloom.
“So we have to wait till tomorrow morning,” said Carole moodily.
“Hm?”
“Till we can get any further with our investigation. You said Sonia Dalrymple’s coming to see you.”
“Yes, but she’s coming to see me as a client. I can’t use our session as an excuse to pick her brains about her being blackmailed.”
“Why not? Medical ethics?”
“Something like that, yes.”
Carole’s snort expressed fully her attitude to the concept of medical ethics being applied to the flaky, spurious world of alternative medicine. “Well, if you don’t want to find out who killed Walter Fleet…”
“I do, Carole. You know I do. And we do have other lines of enquiry open to us.”
“Oh yes? Like what?”
“Hilary Potton. You’re sort of chums with her, aren’t you?”
