But it was a problem that was almost bound to recur, and she just hoped she would have the moral courage to do the right thing when it did.
However, she couldn’t sit there all morning agonising about the ethics of her profession-or vocation or whatever it was. There was one very positive, practical thing she had to do. Without revealing the secret knowledge Donal Geraghty held over her, Sonia Dalrymple had made it very clear that she was anxious to make contact with him. More than anxious-desperate. And since Jude seemed to have been one of the people who had seen Donal most recently, any help she could give in tracking him down would be most welcome.
Well, after the fight with Ted Crisp, the ex-jockey was probably lying low. But there might be ways of finding out where he was lying low.
Jude’s first instinct was to go on the next stage of the quest alone. But the more she thought about it, the more she was amused by the idea of Carole coming with her. So that was what was arranged.
The Cheshire Cheese was no more welcoming than it had been the last time. Nor did the pub give the impression of having been cleaned since Jude’s last visit. But then again it didn’t give the impression of having been cleaned in the previous millennium. And then the cleaning smelled as though it had been done with a rag soaked in beer. She could sense Carole’s nose wrinkling behind her.
Hopes for Chilean chardonnay were so remote that she didn’t bother asking the same anaemic girl at the counter for anything more elaborate than “two white wines.” These were silently produced.
As they picked up their sticky glasses, Carole hissed, “I’ve looked round. He isn’t here.”
“I wasn’t expecting him to be here. Too soon after his run-in with Ted.” Carole took a sip from her wine and grimaced at the taste, as Jude went on. “But there are people in here who might know where he is.”
“You mean you know people in here? Jude, I am constantly surprised by the range of your friends.”
“Hardly call them friends. Just people I’ve met before. Over there.”
Carole followed her friend’s gesture with hardly disguised contempt. At the same table sat four short men, looking very similar to the four short men Jude had seen on her previous visit. All wore dirty weatherproof jackets, breeches and boots; one had a flat discoloured tweed cap. Clearly they weren’t the all same, because Donal wasn’t there for one, and she couldn’t be sure that she recognised the others.
One of them recognised her, however. “Ah, look, it’s Donal’s bit of stuff, come to find him again. Did he not come home last night, dear?” he asked in a voice of mock concern.
“You don’t think he could have been out drinking, do you?” asked another, ready to join in the game.
Jude smiled easily. “I am actually looking for Donal. Do any of you know where he is?”
But none of the old stable lads was going to give a direct answer. There was a lot of heavily mimed head- shaking and oohing and aahing at her request, then the one who’d spoken first said, “Now, if we did know where he was, should we tell you? We don’t know what you’re after him for, do we?”
“Might be maintenance, you see,” suggested one of them.
“Or a restraining order,” another proposed.
“Or,” offered the fourth, “he might have got you into trouble.”
“Well, it would be a genuine miracle if he’d done that,” said Jude with a grin.
Carole recoiled inwardly. It was bad enough that Jude knew people like this; there was no need for her to sink to their conversational level.
“Come on, I need to find him.” Jude went on. “Any suggestions?”
“Plenty of suggestions,” one of the wags replied, “but not many of them printable.”
“Anyway,” said the first speaker, “there’s other reasons Donal might not want to see you. He’s spent a fairly unpleasant few days with the police recently. How do we know it wasn’t you who put them onto him?”
“I can assure you it wasn’t. My only interest in him is because of his skills as a healer.”
“And of course his other skills,” roared one of the men. “The old sexual healing, eh?”
They all found this extremely funny. Jude, smiling along and biding her time, was surprised to see Carole stepping past her and saying in a frosty voice, “Please! There is no need for this kind of smutty sexist vulgarity.”
Four male jaws dropped as one. Then the quickest of them to recover shouted, “Bloody hell, Donal’s got two of them after him now.”
“Always did fancy a threesome, old Donal.”
“Yes, he’s a kinky old-”
“Will you please be quiet. It’s extremely important that we contact Donal Geraghty as soon as possible. If you have any idea where he is or how we can get in touch with him, will you please tell us.”
The men were totally confused by Carole’s schoolmarm approach and fell silent. Then the leader said grudgingly, “We don’t know where he is. Gather he’s had a bit of trouble recently, so don’t know what gaff he’s kipping down in. Somebody’s stable or outhouse I expect, but I can’t tell you whose. Mind you, if you really want to find him, I could tell you somewhere he’s bound to be.”
“Then I think you’d better tell me.” Behind the rimless glasses Carole’s grey eyes were steely.
“It’s Fontwell races day after tomorrow. No way Donal won’t be at Fontwell. If you want to find him, that’s going to be your best bet.”
“Thank you very much,” said Carole Seddon. Then she put down her hardly touched glass of wine on a nearby table and stalked, with considerable dignity, out of the Cheshire Cheese.
Jude, not wishing to spoil her friend’s exit, put down her completely untouched glass, and hurried after her.
27
“What’s that in the back?” asked Jude, as Carole sedately drove the Renault the eleven miles from Fethering to Fontwell Park racecourse.
“Erm…well…”
Jude looked round at the purple straw creation she had last seen at Stephen and Gaby’s wedding.
“It’s a hat, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Carole conceded.
“Did you bring that for today?”
“Well, quite honestly, I wasn’t sure what the form was. I’ve never been racing before.”
“And the only racing you’ve seen has been when it’s made it onto the national news?”
“Maybe.”
“In other words, Royal Ascot.” It was only then Jude noticed that, under her doughty Burberry, her neighbour was dressed in the full purple wedding outfit.
“Um, Carole, a Thursday Fontwell meeting in early March isn’t quite like Ascot. It’s quite low-key in terms of dress.”
“So I won’t look under dressed?”
“Good heavens, no. Rather the reverse. I suggest you keep your raincoat firmly belted up.”
“And don’t wear the hat?” asked Carole a little wistfully.
“ Definitely don’t wear the hat.”
“Oh.”
“I promise you, you’ll be the only person there dressed anything like that. There’ll be plenty of Burberrys, and Barbours, and Drizabones, and quite a few sheepskins, but no wedding outfits. We’re not going to the royal enclosure. And it is only national hunt.”
“Sorry? I thought it was racing, not hunting. And isn’t hunting illegal these days?”
“Carole, you don’t know anything about racing, you do?”
“Why should I? I spent my career in the Civil Service, not hanging round racecourses.”
“Well, listen, there are two sorts of racing in this country: national hunt and the flat.”
“The flat?”
“Yes. And the flat, as the name might suggest, is run on the flat.”
