Imogen Potton would never be in any danger from him.
So, the girl and Conker were with Donal, but where was he? Which of his various bolt-holes had he resorted to this time? Long Bamber was not a possibility, and, given the police interest in the Dalrymples’ stables, he’d never take the risk of going back there. So where? Jude had a nagging feeling that she almost knew, that she had the necessary information somewhere in her memory, if only she could access it.
“Victor and Yolanta Brewis!”
Her shout caused Carole to skew the Renault halfway across the road, into the path of an aggrieved Fethering pensioner in a Toyota Yaris, who hooted his disapproval of all young hooligans in cars.
“What on earth do you mean?” demanded a very frosty Carole.
“I’ve suddenly remembered. When we were at Fontwell, what we overheard from Victor and Yolanta Brewis…”
“About Donal blackmailing them?”
“Yes. But it was what Victor Brewis said. He said if Donal Geraghty caused trouble, then at least they knew where to find him. And that wherever it was was ‘very handy.’ Handy for them. We must go and see the Brewises.”
“But we don’t know where they live,” Carole wailed.
“Lucinda does. I’ll ring her.”
Characteristically, the Brewises didn’t have a house, they had a mansion. Set in the village of Cordham, some couple of miles east of Fedborough, Cordham Manor was most of the village. A wooded lane led past a few other houses behind tall laurel hedges, but everything around seemed to defer to the manor house.
A foursquare Georgian building, it had over the years been allowed to fall into disrepair, but was now undergoing a very thorough refurbishment. It was an old property in need of new money, and of course new money was exactly what Victor Brewis had.
The frontage was heavily scaffolded, and the piles of builders’ materials-planks, palettes of bricks, pyramids of sand, cement mixers-bespoke large expense. Had it not been a Sunday, the site would have been swarming with labourers. The area immediately in front of the main door, which had once been-and no doubt would again be-an elegant garden, was a muddy mess. The chalk in the trampled soil meant that everything was covered with cement-coloured slime.
Carole and Jude, having parked the Renault, picked their way cautiously through the swamp towards the entrance. At some point the massive front door had been painted green, but the colour had faded and was fast disappearing under splashes of mud. The chain from the bellpull was broken and the lion’s head knocker, once so impressive, was corroded and blurred with rust.
Still, there was no other way of attracting the occupants’ attention. Jude reached up towards the ailing lion.
“Just a minute. Have you thought about what approach you’re going to take?”
“Not really. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
Carole tutted at the amateurism of this approach. “And why are we coming to see them so early on a Sunday morning?”
“To find out where Donal is.”
“And what is the basis of our introduction? How do we know these people?”
“I saw them up at Long Bamber Stables.”
“But, from what you told me, they didn’t see you. And then of course we eavesdropped on them at Fontwell. It’s hardly a great basis for opening a conversation, is it?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“No, Jude, we’ve got to plan this. Donal’s blackmailing the Brewises about something they’re prepared to pay a lot of money to keep quiet. If we stumble in with our hobnailed boots asking about it, they’re going to clam up immediately.”
“Everything you say may well be true, but do you have another idea of how we can approach them?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“May I ask how?”
“It’s a matter of using logic. What we’re dealing with here are social-climbing blackmail victims, right?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“So what we need is an approach that appeals to them in both roles.”
“Both as social climbers and as blackmail victims?”
“Exactly.” And Carole reached forward fastidiously to lift the heavy lion knocker and let its impact reverberate through the mansion.
Some time elapsed before there was any response. In fact, Carole and Jude were on the verge of leaving when the large door opened.
Yolanta Brewis stood there, but unlike the Yolanta Brewis Jude had encountered on two previous occasions. A rather grubby silk peignoir was hitched around her finely tuned body. The magenta hair was unbrushed, shapeless, stiff from too much dyeing. And Yolanta’s lack of makeup showed a skin pitted with old acne scars and a couple of new spots starting. A cigarette trailing a long cylinder of ash hung from the corner of her mouth.
“What you want?” she asked, her accent heavier than ever.
“We’re from the local equestrian society, Mrs. Brewis,” said Carole smoothly, “and we hear that you and your husband are riders.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, we make it our business to welcome new riders to the area-providing, of course, they’re the sort of new riders we want in the area. Which”-she looked appreciatively up at the scaffolded splendour of Cordham Manor-“you clearly are.”
“Oh.” Yolanta Brewis was gratified to be included in this exclusive circle and, now she realised who her guests were, felt she should excuse her appearance. “I am so sorry I am not dressed. I have been having the flu.”
“There’s a lot of it about,” said Jude wisely.
“Yes. But, please, you will come in?” She backed away into the hall. “I’m sorry, we have not engaged servants yet. The house is such a mess, there is no point in having staff to tidy things up until the building work inside has been finished.”
“So you are actually living here, Mrs. Brewis?” asked Jude.
“Yes. We-what do you say? Camp out? Our bedroom with the en suite bathroom, that is more or less done.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve got a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen, you’ll be fine.”
“The kitchen is not yet done, but it does not matter.” Yolanta laughed, grinding her cigarette against a builder’s plank in the hall. “We eat out.”
“All the time?”
“All the time. And of course we do have the one good room downstairs.”
With this she flung open double doors that opened from the building site of a hall onto a room of amazing opulence. And exactly the kind of taste that could have been predicted by anyone who had ever met the Brewises.
The decor wasn’t complete; that was the only comfort to be taken. No doubt when the room was finished, there would be even more pink flounces on the tartan curtains. Maybe more huge ceramic poodles would cluster round the fireplace, more turquoise teddy bears would sit on the silver leather sofas, more droopy stuffed clowns would dangle down from the light fittings. Perhaps another wall would be taken up by a huge plasma screen, and there might even be a second wrought iron onyx-topped bar in another corner.
All of this seemed possible. Yolanta, as she proudly told them, had designed the room herself, and Yolanta’s design style favoured excess. If you had one object you liked in a room, how much better to have two. Or three. Or four.
And her approach to decor had its own consistency. Having taken the controversial decision not to attempt recapturing the house’s original Georgian period style, she eschewed all other period styles too. The room was a one-off. It could never be reproduced anywhere else. So, thought Carole and Jude, there was a God after all.
